Chapter 2 - The Card on the Table
The lobby of DeLuca Enterprises did not belong in the same universe as Bellamy’s Grill. It was a cathedral of brushed steel, floor-to-ceiling glass, and Italian marble so reflective Lena could see the scuff marks on her discount ankle boots. Well-dressed people moved through the turnstiles with purposeful strides, speaking in hushed, urgent tones about mergers and portfolio acquisitions.
Lena approached the reception desk, clutching her imitation leather bag like a shield.
"Lena Brooks," she said clearly. "I was told to come here."
The receptionist, a polished woman with immaculate porcelain skin, didn't even ask for an ID. She simply tapped a key, handed Lena a magnetic pass, and smiled with mechanical warmth. "Penthouse suite, Miss Brooks. Mr. DeLuca is waiting."
The elevator ride was silent, forty floors passing in a smooth, sickening rush of altitude. When the doors slid open, Lena found herself stepping directly into an expansive corner office that overlooked the entirety of the Chicago skyline.
Roman DeLuca was standing behind an immense walnut desk, reviewing a stack of blue-bound folders. Today his suit was midnight navy, cut so sharply it looked like armor. He didn’t glance up when she entered; he simply turned a page.
"You’re four minutes early," he remarked, his deep baritone carrying easily across the cavernous room. "I appreciate punctuality."
"I came to tell you to stop digging into my personal life," Lena said without moving an inch past the entryway. "And to return whatever favor you think you’re doing me. I don’t know who gave you my cell number, but it crosses about six legal boundaries."
Roman closed the folder with a deliberate flick of his fingers. He lifted his head, his piercing gaze locking onto hers with an intensity that made the air in the room feel suddenly thinner.
"Todd Reeves gave it to me," Roman said smoothly. "Or rather, he gave it to my associate when five hundred dollars in cash was laid beside the cash register. Men like Reeves have remarkably flexible ethics when green paper is involved."
Lena scoffed, crossing her arms. "Of course he did. Todd would sell his grandmother’s dentures for a promotion. But that doesn’t explain why you’re wasting your morning on a girl who dropped a tray of spinach dip three days ago."
Roman walked around the desk, his hands resting easily inside his trouser pockets. He stopped several feet away, giving her space, but his presence was suffocatingly commanding.
"I don't waste time, Miss Brooks. In my line of work, I am surrounded by men and women who would step over their own mothers for a ten-percent bonus. I deal with people whose loyalty lasts exactly as long as their retainer fees. Yesterday, I watched you throw away your livelihood to protect the dignity of a seventy-six-year-old stranger who couldn't remember where she put her purse."
"That wasn't strategy," Lena snapped. "That was just being a human being."
"Precisely," Roman countered, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Human beings are an endangered species on this floor. I need an executive liaison. Someone who manages sensitive client relations, audits local hospitality partnerships, and tells me the unvarnished truth when my directors are blowing smoke up my backside to keep their stock options."
"I worked at a grill, Mr. DeLuca. I served buffalo wings."
"You managed difficult personalities, handled rapid cash reconciliation, and stood up to a petty tyrant without lowering your eyes." He gestured toward a sleek folder on the desk. "The salary is eighty-five thousand. Full benefits. Starting today."
Lena’s breath caught in her throat. Eighty-five thousand. It was more money than her father had earned in the best year of his life. It meant rent, it meant brakes that worked, it meant breathing room.
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"What's the catch?" she demanded, narrowing her eyes. "Men like you never write checks without an invoice attached."
Roman's lips twitched into the faintest hint of a smile. "The catch, Miss Brooks, is that you have to work with me. And most people find that considerably harder than waiting tables."
