Chapter 8 - The Private Study
The master study on the third floor was the nerve center of the Cross empire.
It was a sprawling, wood-paneled room lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, heavy leather armchairs, and a massive mahogany desk covered in secure monitors, ledger books, and encrypted satellite phones.
When Fay knocked softly on the heavy double doors at 8:00 a.m. the following Monday, Vincent’s voice called out instantly: “Come in.”
She pushed the door open, carrying a silver tray with a fresh pot of coffee and a stack of morning newspapers. Vincent sat behind the massive desk, his sleeves rolled up, reading a financial report on a glowing tablet. He looked up as she entered, his dark eyes instantly softening around the edges—a subtle shift that only someone who spent hours watching him would ever notice.
“You’re early,” Vincent noted, setting the tablet down.
“I prefer to get the dusting done before your morning briefings start,” Fay said smoothly, setting the coffee tray down on the side table and picking up a feather duster.
“The dusting can wait,” Vincent said, standing up and walking slowly toward her. He stopped a foot away, his dark gaze scanning her face. The bruising on her jaw had faded into a faint, yellowish shadow that was easily covered with a dab of light foundation. “How is your face?”
“It’s fine, Mr. Cross. The cream you provided worked miracles.”
“Good.” He reached out, his fingers lightly brushing the edge of her jaw where the bruise had been, a gesture so tender and familiar that it sent a warm, dangerous shiver down her spine. “Because I have a new assignment for you.”
Fay froze, holding the feather duster like a shield. “An assignment? I’m a housekeeper, sir.”
“You are also a senior undergraduate studying constitutional law at Columbia,” Vincent reminded her with a faint, rare smile. “Which means you are vastly overqualified to scrub toilets. Starting today, you are my new administrative assistant. You will manage my private correspondence, review incoming estate contracts, and help me manage the scholarship fund the syndicate quietly runs for families of injured workers.”
Fay stared at him, her mouth slightly open. “You want me to be your administrative assistant? What about Mrs. Gable? What about the housekeeping staff?”
“Mrs. Gable has plenty of staff,” Vincent said, stepping closer until she could smell the familiar, comforting scent of cedar and expensive espresso. “And I have a shortage of people in this house who possess both a functioning moral compass and the courage to tell me when I’m being unreasonable.”
“I’ve never told you you were unreasonable.”
“You thought it every time I ordered a hit or threatened a politician,” Vincent retorted dryly. “Your eyes are entirely transparent, Fay. They tell me everything you’re thinking.”
Before she could formulate a response, the secure intercom on the desk buzzed loudly.
Vincent’s jaw tightened. He walked back to the desk, pressed a button, and spoke in a cold, authoritative voice.
“Report.”
“Boss,” Jonah’s voice crackled through the speaker, sounding urgent and tense. “We have a situation at the northern perimeter gate. State senator Miller’s campaign manager is here. He’s demanding an immediate meeting regarding the municipal zoning permits for the new shipping terminal, and he brought two federal investigators with him.”
The temperature in the study plummeted instantly.
Vincent looked down at the secure monitors, his dark eyes hardening into cold, calculating obsidian.
Fay watched him, feeling the heavy, suffocating weight of the criminal underworld press against the walls of the room once more. The sanctuary they had built over the last week was fragile—a glass house standing in the middle of a hurricane.
May you like
Vincent pressed the intercom button.
“Keep them at the gate,” Vincent ordered coldly. “Do not let them onto the grounds. I’ll be down in five minutes.”
