ARIA

In respectful but firm tones, I try to worm my way out of this shitty predicament, "Sir, might I remind you, I was hired as a financial analyst. Not a personal assistant. I don't think I'll be a good fi—"

Robert cuts me off, "I understand this situation isn't ideal, but I'm not making a request, Aria. You were hand-picked for this opportunity because I know you have what it takes to handle someone as high profile as Mr. Vitale's son."

Indignation rings between my ears. It takes every ounce of my self-control to keep my professionalism in check. "I appreciate your confidence in my abilities."

"You're welcome."

You're welcome—my arse!

I'm not daft. I can read between the lines, and I'm almost certain that I was only hand-picked because:

1. I'm competent enough to kickass at my job while covering for someone else's nepotistic ass.

2. I'm a low-level employee who can be strong-armed into compliance.

Cautiously, I ask, "What would happen if I were to decline this opportunity?"

"Then you may continue working as a financial analyst," Robert murmurs, "but it may become difficult for you to build a lasting career at Jackson & James."

Meaning that I'll probably be let go during the next round of lay-offs.

Or I simply won't be promoted to better positions down the line.

Fuck.

As calmly as possible, I argue, "Even if I agree to this proposal, there aren't enough hours in a day for one person to carry out two full-time jobs."

Robert assures me, "You'll be compensated generously, of course, for your extra time and effort, and, until further notice, you may offload your projects to Theo and Maya. I promise this is only temporary. You'll be able to return to your regular duties in a few months."

I take a moment to consider my options:

1. I could resign.

2. I could go to HR and file a complaint.

3. Or, I could agree to this insane arrangement for a few months, earn some brownie points with Robert, and use them to further my career down the line.

My mind sets.

"Fine," I clip. "I'll do it."

Robert practically beams. "I knew I could count on you, Aria."

I don't hesitate to get a head start on my new role. "Can you tell me more about Mr. Vitale's son?"

"All I know is that he graduated from Cambridge with a background in business. I don't think he has any prior work experience, though."

Oh, fucking hell.

The bastard has never worked a day in his life?

I'll have to hold his hand like he's a blind toddler trying to cross a road during traffic hour. Feeling more than a little anxious, I demand, "What will be expected of me as his PA? I want to be fully prepared."

"I'll have someone email you the details later this afternoon."

"Thank you," I grunt. "I'll make sure to have everything ready for—oh, wait. What was his name, again?"

Robert supplies readily, "Niccolò Vitale."

I hum each syllable, slow and soft, under my breath, "Niccolò... Vitale..."

Damn. It's a very moanable name. Niccolò Vitale sounds exactly like one of those men written by women from the dark mafia romances that I used to be obsessed with in middle school.

I rather like his name.

A shame I can't stand the rest of him.

***

NICCO

On Monday morning, my alarm sounds off at 6 am. An ungodly hour. I lose count of how many times I hit the snooze button. Eventually, the relentless beeping triumphs over my desire to sleep. With great reluctance, I stumble out of bed, hop in the shower, and, afterward, wander into my walk-in closet with only a towel around my waist. I select a tailored gray suit and pair it with a fitted black dress shirt for today.

All Armani, of course.

I was supposed to report to the office two weeks ago, but I have been "working from home" this whole time, trying to salvage my life of leisure by ignoring every urgent email, frantic call, and desperate text that keeps pouring in from the office.

Mostly from my new assistant.

Apparently, her name is Aria.

If it was up to me, I would continue ignoring her. But my black card was canceled yesterday. It is a warning from my father. I cannot dick around anymore.

At 8 am sharp, my driver pulls up in a black Bentley to take me to work. After creeping through bumper-to-bumper traffic for a full fucking hour, the Jackson & James offices finally come into view. They are located in a steel and glass monstrosity of a skyscraper. The elevator takes me up to the sixteenth floor.

As I step out of the sliding doors, I can feel everyone's eyes on me as I walk by. Excited whispers trail behind my every move. The females, especially, seem pleased to see me. This is not surprising. I know what I look like. I ignore them and head straight to my office.

The second I enter my new corporate cage, I see a stunning, young woman with long black hair waiting for me. She appears to be in her mid-twenties. One of the first things I notice about the girl is her eyes. The pale gray color looks striking against her tanned skin. They are almost silver. Mesmerizing. Like the moon.

She is dressed in a crisp white dress shirt and a hip-hugging black pencil skirt. The girl would be very attractive if not for the scowl on her pretty face. For some reason, she does not look happy to see me.

Who is this girl, anyway?

Once the door closes behind me, the girl greets me in quiet, respectful tones, "Good morning."

Pleasantly, I reply, "Buongiorno."

"I am relieved that you are finally here."

I arch an eyebrow. "Relieved?"

The gray-eyed girl explains, "Your absence, sir, has been deeply felt these past two weeks."

I grin. "You flatter me."

Right away, her accent catches my ear. The girl's English sounds more fluent than mine, but her pronunciation is odd, to say the least. It sounds mostly American but slightly British. Like an American person pretending to be British. Or a British person pretending to be an American.

Her brow pinches with disapproval as though she is not amused. "Regrettably, you missed a few meetings this morning."

I toss her a knowing look. I am well aware that I am late. Three hours to be exact. "Were they important?"

"Very."

With a wave of my hand, I dismiss her concerns over the missed meetings. "It does not matter. Most meetings are a waste of time. Full of bullshit with very little substance."

The left corner of her mouth tilts up. "Why don't you tell me how you really feel?"

I chuckle darkly, teasing, "Do not tempt me."

The girl's half-smile falls away. Her demeanor reverts back to all business and no pleasure when she murmurs, "Um, anyway. Please take a look at your calendar when you get a chance. I'd hate for you to miss another meeting, Mr. Vitale."

Did she just address me as... Mr. Vitale?

This will not do.

"Call me Nicco," I insist. "Signor Vitale is my father."

She looks uncertain. "You want me to address you by your first name?

I smile and nod. Gray eyes find my green ones. Her unwavering gaze mesmerizes me. I can't seem to look away as she gives in to my request, "Very well... Nicco."

I will not lie. I like the way my name rolls off her tongue. All soft and breathy. It is surprisingly... sexy. I grow even more curious about her.

"What is your name?" I ask.

"Aria Senarath."

Why does her name sound so familiar?

Then, recognition clicks on like a light. "Ah, I remember now. You are my assistant, no?"

Exactly two weeks ago, Aria introduced herself to me via email. She is the one who has been terrorizing me every day with the endless barrage of emails, calls, and texts.

Aria nods. "Guilty as charged."

She is guilty, indeed. Guilty—of irritating the fuck out of me. I decide to take this moment to set some ground rules.

"If you wish to continue working as my assistant, then, per favore," I suggest with a smirk, "start acting like one."

Aria blinks. "Excuse me?"

I understand that Papà said not to expect special treatment, but, at the end of the day, I am still a Vitale. It does not matter when I show up to work. The fact that I made an appearance should be good enough.

My threat does not even faze Aria. Her poker face is impressive. She clears her throat politely. "I am sorry if you find my performance to be lacking. Perhaps, we can take a minute to get on the same page. Please let me know how I can improve. I am all ears."

Her mouth has since flattened into a grimace. Aria looks like she is thinking about stabbing me in the eye with her stiletto. I do not blame her. I am acting like a total prick. However, despite the gray-eyed girl's obvious vexation with me, her voice remains sweet. Subdued. Soothing. I cast her an amused glance. For some reason, Signorina Senarath's poised composure makes me itch to poke the she-bear again and again.

Shamelessly, I taunt, "I believe it is your job to assist me. Not to annoy me. I will come to work when I come to work and leave when I wish to leave. If I miss a meeting here or there, so be it."

"Is this how you wish to operate?" she mutters under her breath.

I nod. I am only planning to stick around, after all, for a few months to sit at a desk in a nice, air-conditioned building to placate my parents. Then, I will return to my old life of gallivanting around the world, fucking willing women, and driving fast cars.

Aria's gray eyes flick toward me. Her gaze narrows. "If this is what you truly want, then I'll do my best to make it happen. It may be tricky to cancel your existing appointments, but, in the future, I'll make a note to keep your daily schedule as, ah, relaxed as possible."

"You will?" I echo in disbelief.

She nods. "You're the boss, right? Whatever you say—goes."

My eyes widen at her remark. I was not expecting her to adhere to my expectations so quickly. She is an absolute godsend. My own personal angelo.

A pleased smile spreads across my face as I praise, "I am glad you understand what will be expected of you."

Aria hums in noncommittal tones, "Of course. Call me if you need anything else."

With a graceful pivot, she turns on her heel and strolls out of my office. Discreetly, I cannot help but admire the sway of her hips and the curves of her ass as she turns her back to me. I do not think I will mind working with her and seeing her every day. At all.

Once she is gone, I decide to get settled in. Log into my laptop. Check some emails. Review some spreadsheets and financial reports. Within twenty minutes, I am bored out of my mind.

This is when a knock raps at my door.

"Come in," I call out, eager for any kind of distraction.

Aria enters with a white ceramic mug in hand. The rich, nutty aroma of coffee fills my office. I look over with interest. "Is that for me?"

She places the mug on my desk. "Yes."

Eyeing the contents curiously, I ask, "What have you brought me?"

I am very particular when it comes to caffeine and alcohol. I will not drink anything that disagrees with my palate.

"Cappuccino with two shots of espresso. It's your drink of choice, right?"

Cappuccinos with two shots of espresso are absolutely my drink of choice.

How did she know?

My gaze darts back to my lovely assistant. I study her more carefully while taking a sip from my cappuccino. It tastes like home. Like Palermo. Almost as good as the ones Malina, our family's housekeeper, used to make for me. It is perfezione in a cup. Someone clearly did her homework. Reluctantly, I must confess, Papà was not wrong. So far, Signorina Senarath is living up to her exceptional resume. She is making a favorable impression on me.

Glancing at her with a touch of admiration, I inquire, "How did you find out that I am partial to cappuccinos?"

Aria shrugs. "I always do my homework."

I demand, "How much dirt did you dig up?"

"Enough to do my job properly."

My eyes narrow. Mia famiglia's past is not exactly a secret, but it should not be a breeze to uncover, either.

How much does she know about us?

I hide my anxiety behind an expression of disinterest, inquiring in apathetic tones, "Find anything interesting?"

My assistant admits, "I did, actually. I wasn't expecting you to have so many—"

Her pause gives me pause.

So many—what?

Swiss bank accounts?

Properties and vehicles?

Licensed and unlicensed... firearms?

She lets out a cough. "Thirsty fans."

Ah.

That is all she managed to discover about me?

Relief sinks in. I cannot help but grin. "What can I say? I am a very highly sought-after individual."

During high school, I was randomly scouted by a talent agency and completed a few ad campaigns for some notable brands: Gucci, H&M, and, of course, my beloved Armani. Since then, I have accumulated a following of adoring fans over the years.

Aria purses her lips. "Did you know that you have several Instagram accounts dedicated to just your eyes?"

I am aware of these Instagram accounts. But I will never understand why people are enamored with my eyes. They are simply green. Like Mamma's eyes. That is really the only special thing about them.

Wincing, she adds, "It's kind of creepy."

"Says the girl who was stalking me."

Her voice remains soft and sweet, but there's a sharpness in her gaze when she replies, "I prefer the term prepared. Or resourceful. I was only trying to make a good first impression."

"I see." Arching an eyebrow, I challenge, "Now that we have gotten to know each other a bit better, do you think that I have a good first impression of you?"

She eyes me warily and does not answer.

"Well?" I prompt with a smirk.

When Aria does not answer right away, I cannot help but feel as though something is off. For some reason, I want her to want to make a good impression on me. Her silence speaks volumes. I feel nervous about her reply. Far more than I should.

As the seconds tick by, her pretty face remains serene, but I sense that my new assistant does not seem happy with me. There is a storm brewing beneath her calm exterior, and I do not understand why. We barely met an hour ago.

How the hell could I have offended her within a mere sixty minutes?