Voss Novels & Stories

Just absolute, single-minded focus. I glance down at the packet in my hand and read the label aloud, because apparently six in the morning on a kitchen floor is where my dignity has come to rest. "Mousse di pollo con brodo di verdure arricchito." I look back at her. "Chicken mousse with enriched vegetable broth. Very distinguished. You eat better than most of my associates." Mina meows without pausing, without looking up, without granting me anything except the ongoing grace of her continued appetite.

She belongs to me but the jealousy is a new animal with green and sharp-toothed and it’s living in my chest where logic usually sits and I don't have a protocol for it. I've never been jealous. I've never had something worth losing. I get up and go to my office. Pull Voss's full corporate profile. Voss Capital. Founded twelve years ago. Art and cultural investments as the public face, but the portfolio underneath tells a different story: systematic acquisition of companies in my sectors. Real estate development, tech infrastructure, media holdings. Over the past two years, Voss has bought three fi

the secret that kept the utopia stable. One evening, Vossen came to the villa. He was an old man now, his hair entirely white, his spectacles perched on the end of a nose that had smelled too much ozone and too much blood. He sat with us on the terrace, a leather-bound ledger in his lap.

"What's her last name?" A pause. Just one beat too long. "Voss," he said. "Sienna Voss." I didn't say anything for eleven seconds. I know it was eleven because I was looking at the clock on my office wall, the one I keep there for depositions, so I can track how long a witness has been avoiding a question. Eleven seconds is a long time to be silent on a phone call. My father filled it with nervous sounds. I let him. Here is what I knew about the name Voss in eleven seconds:

there she was basking in self gratification. ****** It's nine thirty in the morning and I'm halfway through reviewing the seating charts here at the venue. Sara steps inside. "I come bearing caffeine." she says while handing me the coffee she got. Then lowers her voice. "Oh... Mr Voss is here." My fingers freeze around the coffee. "So early?" I try sounding detached. "He arrived twenty minutes ago." she whispers. That's odd, yes it was his company's event but I was used to having Sebastian around, even though he enjoyed annoying me.

I could push her into it, she has no choice in the matter anyways, but even I know she’d break in the process. Fuck. I need a cigarette. I swiped one from the tin splayed on the mahogany desk and lit it, listening quietly as my father negotiated with Al De Rocco, one of the bosses of the Old Families. I already knew it wasn’t going to end well. The two hated each other. There wasn’t even history there. They met and just instantly knew they wouldn’t be golfing together in the long run. More than that, Old Bosses like Al hated doing business with the “new” guys like my father.

Delara has the expression of a woman who has heard this particular kind of sentence before and knows exactly what it means. "His name is Rael Voss," I add, because apparently I am going to say it out loud. "Voss," she repeats, thoughtfully. "Do you know him?" "I know of the name." She is quiet for a moment. "Old family. Very old money. He has a building on the east side — one of those glass-and-stone towers that went up a few years ago. People say he moves between cities. Doesn't stay anywhere long." I think about the coat. The phone with the document. The way he held his coffee like someone accustomed to waiting on his own term

His voice made her nipples tighten under her blouse. “Elena,” he snapped suddenly through the intercom. “In here. Now.” She jumped up, smoothing her tight pencil skirt, and walked in. Damon sat behind his massive desk in a perfectly tailored black suit, looking every inch the ruthless billionaire. His eyes flicked over her body like he owned it. Which, after last night, he kind of did. “Yes, Mr. Voss?” she asked, trying to sound professional. Her voice came out breathy. He leaned back, staring. “You’re walking funny today. Sore, are we?”