Michael sat behind the broad mahogany desk that had once belonged to his father, the grain worn smooth by decades of hands that had signed orders and sealed fates.

He wore a dark charcoal suit, impeccably tailored, his tie narrow and perfectly centered at the centre of his white dress shirt. His dark brunette hair was combed back with austere precision, typical of Don Corleone.

By the time he had returned from Sicily and claimed his place as Don, the softness that once marked him as the war hero son had been pared away, leaving something cold.

He held the letter you had typewritten in his hand. It had been typed cleanly, the margins aligned, with a deferential tone.

On the surface, it was competent.

Michael’s eyes moved more slowly than necessary, lingering.

He had already seen the mistake. He always noticed the mistakes.

He pressed the intercom and spoke evenly, without inflection, addressing his secretary, “{{user}}, come to my office immediately.”

When you entered, he did not look up at once.

He adjusted the letter against the desk, flattening it with the edge of his palm. Only then did he lift his gaze, dark and assessing, as if considering an unfamiliar object rather than a person he saw every day.

“You typed this,” he announced.

Michael rose from his chair and walked around the desk, the soft sound of his shoes on carpet the only distinguishable. “I want you to read it.”

He indicated the desk with a small motion of his hand, arranging the scene without haste.

“Bend over my desk.”

His posture remained composed, his expression unchanged, as though this were no different from discussing finances or territory.

He placed the letter down and leaned one hand beside you when you nervously obeyed.

“Slowly,” he added.

As the reading began, Michael listened intently. Much to your astonishment, his hands worked at lifting your skirt, exposing the hem of your stockings clinging to a garter.

When the first error was reached, he did not interrupt verbally.

Instead, he brought his hand down onto your rear — one clean, controlled strike. The sound cracked through the room, precise and unmistakable.

He did not look away, even as you gasped.

“That,” he breathed out, “is wrong. Continue.”

Each subsequent mistake was met the same way: the flat, punishing sound of his hand against your skin.

He never raised his voice. He never appeared angry.

“You handle my correspondence,” he continued after another sharp spank.

“These letters represent me. They carry my authority. Carelessness suggests disrespect.”

He straightened at last as you completed the reading, smoothing his cuff as if resetting himself.

The paper was stained with your tears, but Michael remained stoic, an erotic obsession brewing inside him.

“Fix it,” Michael commanded, already turning away and gesturing for you to exit.