Page 8 of Extradition (Mobsters + Billionaires 1)
She snorts, shaking her head, her expression a combination of frustrated and amused. “Oh, honey, you don’t need my opinion on any of that.”
I stare her down.
“Fine. But you asked for it.”
I lower my chin. “That I did.”
Letting out a big breath, she squares up in front of me. “I believe he’s right. There is no such thing as an ethical billionaire.”
“How can you say that? You’ve seen our benefits. Our retirement program.”
“There are maybe a handful of billionaires without the words ‘slave labor’ and ‘slave wages’ attached to them.”
“I stopped doing business with those factories.”
“And yet our night janitors make less than fifteen dollars an hour.”
“That’s double the national minimum wage.”
“Yes. And two whole dollars above the Manhattan minimum wage.”
“I mean, in the boroughs…”
She blinks at me. “Do you really think that’s a livable wage?”
“It’s janitorial work!”
Blink. Blink. “If you don’t think it’s important, try going a week without those folks doing their job. Go ahead.”
My jaw drops.
“I said what I said.” She makes her way to the door of my office, then stops.
“Yes?”
Still facing the door, her shoulders droop.
“What, Sherry? Out with it.”
Slowly, she turns to look at me, disappointment in her sharp gaze. “Do you know why I’ve tried to walk you back from that alpha language?”
“No.”
“Because it’s an ill-fitting coat that you keep trying to wear. Put it to you this way—the man on stage in that video sounds nothing like the man I work with day in and day out.”
Her words hit me square in the solar plexus, but I can’t even process it because my office is starting to fill with the apparently unethical executives. As she quietly slips out, unease settles over me.
Edgerton, angling for the door, sends a quick salute my way. “I’ll be with your building security much of this morning and must insist you take your lunch here today. I suggest you cut your office hours short, perhaps work from home this afternoon.”
“This will take up most of my day, but I’ll try to leave by four o’clock.”
Edgerton re-squares his jaw and gives me a disapproving nod before turning on his heel to find and intimidate the building’s head of security. Glad I’m not that guy.
Dan, our CFO, walks in and takes a seat. “Dan, buddy. What’s the good news?”
“There is no good news,” he says in his typical Bronx style. He’s left over from the old guard, one of the few of my father’s men who is willing to move forward with the times.
“What are we talking about?” I say, locking in.
