The Devil's Heartbeat

The elevator chimed, and in an instant; the floor fell silent, chairs straightened, coffee cups were lowered and, fingers danced nervously over keyboards as though speed could erase the idleness of a second ago.

“Don’t look up,” a senior manager hissed under her breath to the new intern beside her.”Just keep typing, he notices everything.”

The intern’s brow furrowed. “Who?”

The woman didn’t answer, she didn’t need to.

Luciano De La Vega stepped out of the elevator, tall and severe in a charcoal-gray suit that fit him with surgical precision. His strides was measured and deliberate, like a predator that already knew no one would dare stand in its way.

A junior staff dropped her file as he passed. She bent quickly to pick it up, her face pale with fear that he might notice. He didn’t, or so she thought.

The whispering began the moment he passed.

“That’s him…”

“Diablo.” Another added.

“They say he’s fired people for just breathing wrong.”

“I heard he’s never had a woman in his life, not once.” A staff whispered.

“Everyone knows why, him and his assistant…” a glance over the shoulder, then a lowered voice, “…they’re… involved.” Staff three said, the others gasped, putting their hands over their mouth in shock.

“Why else would a man his age be unmarried?” staff three added.

Luciano’s gaze cut briefly toward the cluster of whispers. A single glance, sharp, cold, merciless and the chatter died as though strangled in the air. Heads bowed instantly to papers and screens.

Only the sound of his shoes echoed across the marble floor until he reached the glass doors of his office. His assistant, already waiting, opened them wordlessly. The doors closed behind him. The staff exhaled in unison, shoulders sagging in relief.

The intern dared a whisper. “He didn’t even say a word.”

“That’s worse,” the manager muttered. “The devil never has to.”

Inside, behind closed doors, Luciano paused at his desk. He turned to his assistant, Mr. Grad.

“Who was that? The one with the files on the floor?” he asked without batting an eye. His voice, when he finally used it, was smooth, deep, and measured.

“Oh, she’s one of the junior staff, employed three months ago, sir.” Mr. Grad explained, knowing where the question was leading.

“Nice, she’s fired. I did not verify her employment documents, only to have her incompetent at her job. If one isn’t coordinated, how can the company thrive?” he said sternly, “that’s all, you can go.”

As his assistant left his office; he stood for a brief, unguarded second, his hand pressed against his chest, where the tightness had begun again. His jaw clenched, and he steadied himself until the pain dulled.

By the time his assistant entered again with a stack of folders, the mask was firmly in place again.

“Your schedule, sir.”

Luciano only gave a curt nod, his voice, deep. “Cancel the eleven. Move the board briefing to three. And tell the legal team I want the contract finalized by tomorrow.”

“Yes, Mr. De La Vega.” The assistant withdrew silently.

Alone again, Luciano lowered himself into the chair, gaze falling to a photograph propped against the edge of the desk. It was the only personal item in sight, framed in silver; a younger version of himself, standing between a striking woman with aristocratic poise and a stern, hawk-eyed man, his mother and his uncle.

He stared at it for a long moment, expression unreadable. Then, with deliberate precision, he turned the frame face down.

Outside the glass, the office hummed back to life. Keyboards clattered, orders were barked and phones rand.

“Hello, this is the managers phone, what can I do for you?” the senior manager answered the phone in a polite and professional manner.

“I want to see you in my office.” The voice said. Expression of unease rippled across the face of the manager, she swallowed, a familiar dark aura filling the entire floor as the rest of the staff noticed the look on her face.

Immediately she dropped the telephone, her colleagues suspended the work they were doing and, stared at her like a cow being dragged for slaughter. There was no doubt she was going to be fired today, just like the junior staff that was fired by Mr. Grad an hour ago.

The young girl was merely happy to be working for one of the biggest companies in New York, even though she never liked her boss, but she was happy.

Who doesn’t hate their boss?

Two months ago, she brought doughnuts to work and celebrated paying off her student loan, having no debt to her name.

The atmosphere around the office maybe dark and unaccommodating, but the pay was good.

If you can survive Luciano De La Vega, you can as well survive even the venom of the most poisonous snake in the whole world.

The senior manager got to the office of Luciano and knocked on the glass door. Luciano waved her in, raising his head slightly from the desktop computer on his desk.

“You called for me, sir?” she asked, shivering under her skin.

“Are you the senior manager?” he asked, looking at her judgingly with the glasses on his face.

“Yes… sir… I aam.” She stuttered.

He peered into the computer again and then looking up. “That explains a lot, miss…?”

“Mrs Grace Morello, sir.” She replied, having no courage to look him in the eyes.

“Oh, Italian. Listen, I have nothing against women working in my company. Moreover, women are known to contribute to the productivity and growth of the economy in Asia. However, none can be said about you.” He said, assessing her and waiting for her to say something.

“I do not understand your point, sir.” Mrs Grace replied.

“All I’m trying to say, Mrs. Morello, is that the marketing team which you appear to be in charge of, though I don’t know why, at this point, isn’t yielding the expected result and numbers set for it. May I know why this has happened?”

The room fell silent, the ticking of the wall clock suddenly seemed louder than usual. Mrs. Morello shifted uncomfortably in her chair, her fingers tightening around the pen she held.

“Sir,” she began cautiously, “we’ve been implementing the strategy approved by the board, but the market response has been far slower than we projected. Consumer behavior has shifted drastically this quarter and …”

Luciano leaned forward, cutting her off with a sharp wave of his hand.

“Don’t give me excuses about consumer behavior. Numbers don’t lie, Mrs. Morello, sales are down twelve percent, our competitors are ahead, and I’m sitting here wondering if my marketing team is asleep. Now tell me, is it incompetence or negligence?”

A bead of sweat rolled down her temple. She straightened her shoulders, trying to steady her voice.

“Neither, sir. We’ve been working `tirelessly, but the resources allocated are stretched thin. The campaigns we pitched for digital expansion were cut in half, and …..”

“Enough.” His tone was cold and final. “If you’re telling me it’s a source problem, then I want solutions, not complaints. If you can’t deliver results, I’ll find someone who can.”

He lips parted, but no words came out immediately. The weight of the warning hung heavy in the air.