Chapter Four: The Interview

Leonardo's POV 

The Moretti mansion rose ahead of me, its pale stone catching the early sun in a way that made it look almost regal. I stepped out of the SUV, gravel crunching under my shoes. The air was sharp, the kind of morning where every sound felt amplified. Inside, the cool scent of polished wood mixed with the faint bitterness of espresso drifting from the dining hall.

My father was already seated at the long table, a folded newspaper to his right, untouched toast to his left. As usual, my mother wasn’t there. She preferred her mornings away from discussions about the family business.

“You’re late,” he said, not looking up from his coffee.

“I had an early call,” I replied, sliding into the chair opposite him. “HR finalized the shortlist for the secretary position.”

“And?”

“Four applicants. All with clean records and strong recommendations.”

He finally met my gaze, dark eyes sharp as ever. “Skill isn’t enough, Leonardo. You need someone you can trust. Someone who understands the risks and boundaries in business.

“I’ll see who fits the role best.”

“You’ll see who’s loyal,” he corrected. “Don’t mistake competence for loyalty. Enemies hide well in plain sight.”

I stirred my coffee, the spoon clinking softly against porcelain. I didn’t need the reminder, this was the world I’d grown up in. Trust was currency, and betrayal was always waiting to collect its interest. But something in his tone made me pause.

“You think one of them could be a threat?” I asked.

He shrugged, and the gesture was as frustrating as it was familiar. “I think you should remember that trust is earned, not given.”

We moved on to other topics, shipping routes, a contact in Milan, but the warning stayed with me, like a pebble in my shoe. By the time I left the table, I’d already decided I’d be watching these applicants closely.

Walking down the marble hallway, my footsteps echoed faintly in the high-ceilinged space. Outside, sunlight had sharpened, but my thoughts were still clouded by my father’s words.

The SUV door closed with a solid thud, and I caught one last glimpse of the mansion in the mirror before the driver pulled down the driveway. Enemies hide well in plain sight.

By the time we reached Moretti Global’s towers, the city was alive with movement. The interviews would start soon. One of those four faces would end up across from my desk for the foreseeable future.

The elevator doors slid open to the thirty-fourth floor, and the familiar scent of leather and fresh paper greeted me. My office sat at the far end, floor-to-ceiling windows spilling light across the polished floor. I liked mornings here, before the noise, before anyone came knocking with problems that required immediate solutions.

Except today, HR was already waiting.

“Good morning, sir,” Maria, our HR manager, greeted, a clipboard clutched to her chest. “The first applicant is ready in the conference room. Would you like to begin?”

“Let’s get this over with,” I said, loosening my tie slightly as I followed her.

The conference room was glass-walled, offering no privacy from the outer office. I liked it that way. Transparency or the illusion of it kept people on their toes.

One by one, the applicants came in. The first was competent, rehearsed to the point of stiffness. The second spoke too much, I had no interest in someone who couldn’t read a room. The third… I barely remembered her by the time she left.

Then Maria stepped out to call in the last name on her list.

I didn’t hear her voice at first, only the faint click of heels on the marble. I looked up, and time seemed to be still.

Those eyes.

Every night for the past fourteen years, I’d seen them. In my dreams. In my nightmares. They haunted me from the shadows, under dead bodies, staring, unblinking. And now they were here, anchored to a face I had no idea I have met.

She stood straighter under my gaze, her expression calm, too calm. But those eyes… They were the same. The color of a storm at sea. The same shape, the same way they searched a room as if mapping every escape route.

“Camille Martins,” Maria introduced.

The name didn’t fit her, but I said nothing.

“Have a seat,” I told her, my voice steady, though my pulse wasn’t.

She sat, crossing one leg over the other. “Thank you for considering me, Mr. Moretti.”

Her voice was soft but carried an edge. I knew that tone, it was the voice of someone who could smile while hiding a blade.

I asked the usual questions, but I barely registered her answers. I was too busy studying every twitch, every change in her gaze. If she recognized me, she didn’t show it. If she knew the effect she had just walked into this room, she concealed it perfectly.

When the interview ended, I dismissed her with a polite nod. But as she left, her eyes met mine again, and for the briefest moment, I could’ve sworn I saw it, the faintest curl of a smirk.

I stayed in that chair long after the door closed.

Those eyes… they weren’t just part of my past. They were a warning.

I didn’t move for a long while after she left. My fingers drummed against the armrest, a slow, deliberate rhythm. It wasn’t often someone walked into my office and unsettled me.

I reached for her résumé. Camille Martins. Neat, professional font, no frills. Education: impeccable. Employment history: convenient. Too convenient. The kind of history that looked like it had been tailored to fit the position perfectly, because it probably had.

“Get me the full background check on the fourth applicant,” I told Maria over the intercom. “Not just the standard package. I want everything.”

“Yes, sir.”

While I waited, I scanned the paper again. There was nothing wrong on the surface, but that was the problem. People with clean records were rarely clean.

The file arrived in under an hour. I flipped it open and skimmed through. No criminal record. No debts. No social scandals. No… anything.

The absence of mistakes was its own red flag.

I leaned back in my chair, watching the city from my window. Why was she here? Why now? My father’s warnings about wolves in sheep’s clothing echoed in my mind.

And yet…

I could still see the way her gaze held mine in the conference room. Steady. Calculated. It wasn’t the look of a desperate applicant, it was a challenge. As if she knew I’d either send her away or pull her closer. And she was betting on the latter.

She might be right.

Maria came in with a polite knock. “Your decision sir?”

I let the silence stretch a beat longer than necessary. “Let's go with Camille Martins, Hire her. Starting Monday.”

Her brows lifted slightly, but she didn’t question me. “Understood.”

When she left, I exhaled slowly. My instincts told me this woman was dangerous. That bringing her into Moretti Global was the kind of decision you regret too late.

But instincts weren’t the only thing driving me. There was something else, something primal, pulling me toward her. Those storm-colored eyes had stirred a memory I thought I’d buried.

If she was here to play a game, I’d play it better.

A call came just as I was pouring myself a drink.

“Your father wants you at the mansion. Now.” The voice on the line was flat, one of Roberto’s men.

I was there this morning but I didn’t bother asking why. When my father summoned you , you didn’t negotiate.

The drive through the Moretti estate gates felt heavier than usual. By the time I stepped into his study, the air inside was thick with cigar smoke and something colder.

Roberto sat behind his desk, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, the deep lines around his eyes sharper in the lamplight. He didn’t look up immediately, his gaze was fixed on the laptop in front of him.

“Leonardo.”

“Father.” I took the seat opposite him, my eyes flicking to the screen.

He turned it toward me. The grainy CCTV feed of a hotel in Palermo. A man, stocky, mid-fifties, stepped out of a black sedan, entering a hotel. The timestamp was three nights ago.

“That’s Carlos Ricci,” my father said. “Seventh mafia lord in four years.”

Ricci owned the hotel. I watched the way the figure in the coat tortured him, covered his mouth with tapes, and it seemed like the figure was telling him some things.

With every precise move, it was almost… elegant.

The killer turned toward the CCTV, with a mocking smile, Just enough for us to know.

A woman.

My father hit pause. “The image is poor quality. Facial recognition failed. But you see the problem?”

I leaned closer. The outline of her jaw, the shape of her eyes… that smirk. 

It couldn’t be.

Roberto studied me like he could read my thoughts. “Whoever she is, she’s efficient. Too efficient. And she’s moving through our world like a ghost.”

I could understand why my father was concerned and agitated. Carlos Ricci had always been our most reliable transporter in arms trafficking, he knew all the ports and easy access routes. One way or another all seven mafia lords that had been killed for four years now were connected to the Moretti name.

He leaned back, lighting another cigar. “Find her before she finds us”. 

I forced my expression to stay neutral, but the image burned in my mind.

Because even through the blur, I knew.

I’d seen those eyes before.

Hours ago.

Sitting across from me in my office, introducing herself as Camille Martins.