She Accidentally Used a Pet Name for the Mafia Boss—What He Did Next Stunned the Office

The transition was not subtle.

By eight o’clock the following morning, Paige’s canvas tote bag, her framed photograph of Buster, and her half-empty bottle of ibuprofen were arranged neatly on a polished ebony desk on the fortieth floor.

Downstairs, the bullpen had turned into a hive of frantic speculation. When Paige had returned to her old desk the previous evening to collect her coat, Sylvia had refused to look her in the eye. The whispers had clung to the air like grease: *She must have something on him.* *Did you see her go up?* *Who is she really working for?*

Now, Paige sat behind an array of three curved monitors, watching the private elevators like a hawk waiting for a storm.

The brass doors slid open at precisely 8:15.

Gabriel walked out, shedding a heavy cashmere overcoat that Nico caught out of mid-air with practiced ease. Gabriel didn't look tired. He looked sharpened, like a blade freshly drawn against a whetstone.

"Coffee," Gabriel said as he passed her desk without breaking his stride. "Black. Two drops of lemon juice. No sugar."

"Right away, Mr. Moretti," Paige said, jumping to her feet.

"And bring in the manifest from Pier Nineteen," he added before his office door swung shut.

Paige scrambled. The kitchenette on the executive floor was sleek, cold, and stocked with espresso machines that looked like industrial medical equipment. Her hands shook as she pulled the double shot, sliced a lemon with a paring knife, and placed the porcelain cup on a silver tray beside the manifest.

When she entered his office, Gabriel was already standing by the window, reviewing a set of blueprints spread across a side table.

"Set it down," he commanded.

She placed the tray on his desk. As she turned to leave, Gabriel spoke without looking up.

"Sit down, Paige. You're attending this morning's briefing."

"The briefing?" she echoed. "Mr. Moretti, the manifests are logistics data. I don't understand syndicate supply chains."

"It isn't a supply chain," Gabriel said, finally turning to face her. "Salvatore Rossi is coming up those elevators in ten minutes. He controls the trucking routes through Jersey City. He believes that because my father died eighteen months ago, the Moretti family is run by an inexperienced boy."

He walked over to her, his steps silent against the slate. He reached out and adjusted the lapel of the conservative navy blazer she had bought off a clearance rack two years ago. The heat of his knuckles grazed her collarbone, sending an electric jolt directly to her solar plexus.

"Rossi is crude," Gabriel said, his voice dropping into that dark, velvety register. "He will attempt to test me. When he cannot find a crack in my armor, he will look for one in yours. You will sit beside me. You will take notes. You will not blink, you will not flinch, and under no circumstances will you apologize to him."

"And if he speaks to me?" she asked, her pulse hammering against the hollow of her throat.

"Let him speak," Gabriel whispered, his eyes glittering like winter frost. "And watch what happens to him."

The elevator chimed.

Salvatore Rossi did not look like Gabriel Moretti. Where Gabriel was tailored precision and contained iron, Rossi was excess. He was a broad, thick-necked man in his late fifties, draped in a pinstriped suit that strained against his gut, his fingers heavy with gold sovereign rings. He entered with three bodyguards who smelled of cheap aftershave and cigar smoke.

Nico stepped out from the corner of the office, blocking the three guards with his immense frame.

"Just the boss," Nico grunted.

Rossi waved his men back with an irritated flick of his wrist. "Paranoid as ever, Gabriel. Just like your old man."

Rossi waddled into the office, his eyes immediately darting from Gabriel to Paige. A greasy, speculative smile touched the corners of his mouth.

"Well, well. Who's this? You finally got rid of that sour-faced secretary and got yourself some company?"

"This is Paige Winslow," Gabriel said coldly, remaining seated behind his desk. He didn't offer Rossi a seat. "My executive assistant. Sit, Salvatore. We have fifteen minutes before I have a call with Rotterdam."

Rossi pulled out the chair opposite Gabriel—the same chair Paige had occupied the day before—and dropped into it heavily.

"Let's talk about the docks at Bayonne," Rossi said, leaning forward. "My boys are seeing too many Moretti trucks moving container units without our seals. We agreed on a twenty percent surcharge for the transit corridors."

"We agreed to ten percent," Gabriel countered, his voice dead level. "And that was contingent on your drivers arriving on schedule. Last week, three shipments of perishable electronics sat in the sun for fourteen hours because your dispatchers were drunk."

"Mistakes happen in logistics, kid," Rossi sneered, dismissing the point with a wave of his ring-encrusted hand. Then his eyes drifted back to Paige. She was furiously scribbling notes on a yellow legal pad, keeping her head down, just as Gabriel had told her.

"Pretty thing," Rossi muttered, his gaze tracing the neckline of her blouse. "You know, Gabriel, if you're looking for leverage on the corridor fees, maybe we could make an exchange. I've got an apartment in Hoboken that could use a girl with legs like that. What do you say, sweetheart? You tired of working for a kid who doesn't know how to treat a woman?"

Paige froze. The pen stopped moving across the paper.

The air in the office dropped twenty degrees.

Gabriel did not shout. He did not slam his fists. He simply picked up his fountain pen, placed the cap on it with a soft *click*, and set it on the blotter.

"Salvatore," Gabriel said.

Rossi grinned, looking back at him. "Just joking, Gabriel. Can't take a compliment?"

"Stand up."

The smile slipped from Rossi’s face. "What?"

"Stand up, or Nico will remove your knees with a tire iron."

Rossi’s complexion mottled from pink to dark purple. "Now wait a minute—"

"Stand up."

Rossi pushed himself out of the chair, his posture rigid with fury and sudden, creeping dread.

Gabriel rose slowly, towering over the older man. He leaned across the desk, his voice a lethal, sub-zero whisper.

"If you look at her again, I will revoke your access to Bayonne. If you speak to her again, I will take the three trucking hubs you inherited from your brother and burn them to the ground with your drivers inside. Miss Winslow is not an asset for negotiation. She is mine. Do you understand that word, Salvatore? *Mine.*"

Rossi stepped back, his eyes darting to Nico, who had moved silently into the doorway, arms crossed over his chest.

"You're making a mistake, Moretti," Rossi rasped, trying to salvage his dignity. "Over a secretary?"

"Get out of my office," Gabriel said.

Rossi didn't wait for a second invitation. He turned on his heel and marched toward the elevators, his guards falling in behind him like nervous dogs.

The doors closed.

The silence returned to the fortieth floor, heavy and thick. Paige sat frozen, her hand still holding the pen, her heart racing so fast she felt dizzy.

*She is mine.*

The words echoed in her skull. Gabriel hadn't said it like an employer defending an employee. He had said it like an emperor claiming a territory.

Gabriel turned away from the window and looked at her.

"You didn't flinch," he said quietly.

"I was too terrified to move," she admitted honestly.