Page 41 of Extradition (Mobsters + Billionaires 1)
RAND
The room goes silent,save for my father’s disdainful words about the little people ringing in my ears. Frustrated and anxious, I straighten my tie, then loosen it. Then take it off entirely.
I hate wearing ties.
Most of these people genuinely do not care about the human beings who work for us. And to be honest, until I was being shot at by the Mafia, I don’t think I’d given it much of a thought one way or the other. We pay people, they work for us, end of story.
But now I hear it—the judgment and disregard. And I can’t stand it.
I sneak a look at Jackson. As VP of Human Resources, he’s a serious fellow and always careful with his words. He’s remained silent this entire time, but every time Joe makes a point, he nods his head ever-so-slightly.
My father noticed, and we’ll likely be short one VP by the end of the day, with no lessons learned on my father’s part.
And that’s the point Joe has been trying to make the entire time. These people who work for us are human beings. That seems obvious now, but as far as the company is concerned, they’ve only ever been assets.
That kind of short-sighted thinking allowed my father, near the end of his tenure as CEO, to approve the manufacturing of our very expensive shoes in places where people were enslaved for their labor. I have no proof that he knew this ahead of time, but I’m not convinced knowing would have swayed his choices.
Joe, on the other hand, is a thing of beauty. If he was powerful in an ill-fitting, wrinkled shirt, he’s damn near invincible in well-tailored, luxury wool. He speaks with authority and passion and—sometimes—a flash of mobster. It’s sexy as hell.
In comparison, I’m already cowing to my father like I always do. I’d love nothing more than to follow Joe into the fire, but I have no choice. My father holds all the cards.
When the silence continues, I clear my throat. “Okay, we’ve listened to what Mr. Portelli has to say. I understand these things can get heated, but there’s a lot we’ve learned.”
My father purses his lips, and I, as always, school my face when he undermines me.
I glance at Joe, expecting the same derision in his expression. But no. His jaw tenses and he narrows his eyes at my father, shaking his head in what can only be described as disgust.
My father pushes back from the table and stands, imperious as always. “Fine. I have other things I need to attend to.”
With that, the meeting is over, and not a damn thing has changed. There’s an awkward pause before everyone shuffles off to whatever they have planned for their evening.
Straightening some papers, I chance another look at Joe, and he looks disappointed. Probably in me. When I think about how quickly I was in over my head at the docks, I wonder what his opinion of me must be. Not that I should care what he thinks, but I do. I really do, and that he’s seen how weak I really am is almost more than I can bear.
When we get back to the penthouse, I beg off from our dinner and VR games, claiming a headache. Grayson knocks on my door several minutes later.
“Sir. Mr. Portelli says that you have a headache and was quite concerned. He insisted that I bring you migraine tablets and chamomile tea,” he says, gesturing to the tray of care items.
“Fucking Joe,” I swear under my breath.
“Sir?”
I shake my head. “Nothing, Grayson. My apologies. It was not a good day at the office.”
“That so, sir?”
Something about having Grayson standing here—since I am not competent enough to grab an aspirin from my own damn medicine cabinet—makes me feel utterly useless and utterly alone.
I ask myself what Joe would do and snort to myself.
“Sir?”
“Can you… Grayson, when it’s just the two of us, can you please call me Rand?” I feel stupid for asking, but it feels important. Really important.
“Of course, sir…Rand. I’m happy to do that.”
“Thank you.”
We stand there for an awkward moment. “Rand, would you be open to a suggestion?”
