3. Rhaim

3

RHAIM

I worked most of Saturday—Nero had texted me saying he needed to run a proposition by me but said he wouldn't till we met in person next, which told me that it was too dangerous to put in writing, so I wanted to get caught up. I worked on Sunday too, minus my trip to see Isabelle and the baby, and by Monday morning I'd fully recovered my inner asshole.

I made it a point to go to the gym early and finish up my run on time, so I could shit, shower, and shave and be in my office, exactly where he wanted me to be, at eight-oh-one.

And eight-oh-three.

And eight-fifteen.

I was used to him by now. Nero Ferreo was the human embodiment of a cat: easily distracted, with the potential to be ruthlessly cruel. He was late sixties and apparently good-looking for his age. He'd had a revolving door of wives and women for as long as I'd known him—not even getting burn scars on his neck and shoulder after a tragic fire at his mansion years ago had dented his allure—and he was the head of Corvo Enterprises, the largest remaining family held company in the hospitality and gambling sector. It had hotels all around the world, two casinos in Las Vegas, and we were negotiating for a third here in New York now that recent changes in the law had made them somewhat legal.

As such, it wasn't his job to be on time—and ever since I'd first been the driver in one of his getaway cars for him, back when I was fourteen and well before I had a legal license, I'd always known that waiting was part of the job for me.

Even now that I was his CFO.

So I carried on, knowing he'd find me when he needed to—greasing all the wheels of our assorted legal industries, making sure that all of the money we'd once made via illegal means stayed bleached, washed, and starched, going through an entire screen's worth of profit and loss tabs one by one, until my assistant, Mrs. Armstrong, rapped twice on the door like she always did.

"Mister Selvaggio? Mister Ferreo is here."

I glanced at the clock. Ten-oh-five.

I would've told her to let him in, but it didn't matter; he was already opening the door. Nero was of the opinion that nothing should be locked to him in the entire building, because he owned it all—which everyone knew, as he was fond of reminding us.

But I couldn't truly complain. I remembered where I'd come from and when he'd found me—and he'd made sure I was well compensated over the years.

And every once in a while he would throw me a bone for old times' sake. Like when his coke dealer had cut his stuff before an important party a few months ago.

So many bad things could happen to someone in international waters.

It was really just a shame.

I stood as he walked in, ready to shake his hand, offer him a drink from my bar, and get down to business.

"Bestiola!" Nero bellowed, because he only had one volume, using the only nickname I'd ever had on this earth— little beast —despite the fact that I was now forty-five—and I would've complained about it like I always did, only I noticed someone else walking in right behind him.

And this time she wasn't in a catsuit—no, she was in a caramel brown pencil skirt, and a shiny, loose, off-white, long-sleeved blouse, and her hair was in a bun.

"You remember my daughter Lia?" he went on, as she walked in, surveying the room coolly, before she looked at me.

"Rhaim Selvaggio," she said pleasantly, holding out one hand, like the hand she'd be shaking wasn't the same one that'd spanked her on Friday night before making her come. "Of course I remember you."

"I remember you, too," I told her with a completely flat inflection, as Nero went on, oblivious, grabbing her shoulder and shaking it roughly, like she was one of the boys.

"Lia just got her MBA. I want you to teach her everything you know, Rhaim—because someday soon this place is going to be hers."

"Thanks, Daddy," she said, with a sweetness that didn't reach her eyes—I knew because she was staring fire right at me.

Daddy's little girl hated me.

I.

Was.

Fucked.