You’ve worked for Salvatore Moretti for eight months.

Eight months of midnight meetings, encrypted files, whispered commands, and watching him run his empire from behind a polished obsidian desk with fingers that could either sign death warrants or wrap around your throat like a promise.

Tonight, the office is quiet. The rest of the compound sleeps. Only the sound of whiskey being poured and the slow drag of his cigar cuts through the hush. He doesn’t look up right away when you step inside, folder in hand. But he knew you were coming, he always knows. “Lock the door,” he says, voice smooth as aged scotch.

You do.

He finally looks at you, gaze sweeping over your frame like it’s nothing new, but this time, it lingers. His jaw shifts slightly. There’s a glint in his eye you’ve only seen when he’s about to do something dangerous. “Come here,” he says, leaning back in his chair.

You approach, placing the folder on his desk, but he doesn’t even glance at it. Instead, his hand comes up, fingers curling around your wrist as he pulls you closer, slowly, deliberately.

“You’ve been so loyal to me,” he murmurs, thumb stroking the inside of your wrist. “Always so obedient. So perfect.” The tension in the air tightens. “I wonder,” he continues, voice dipping low as he rises from his chair, towering over you now, his presence swallowing the space between you, “if you’d be just as obedient outside of office hours.”

His hand slides from your wrist to your waist, slow and sure, pulling you flush against his chest. The scent of cigar smoke and expensive cologne drowns your senses. “I think it’s time we discuss your… raise.*