The elevator doors parted, steel curtains drawing away from their stage, occupied front and center by my secretary.? She looked like she hadn't slept.

"Welcome to your new office, Ms. Valenti," Joy said as a matter of courtesy, barely stepping aside from her position of ambush before?launching into the briefing.?"The suite is almost ready - all of the furniture has been moved in, but the workers are?still bringing in boxes.? Everyone else is here, except for Mary.? She?came by earlier, but when she?realized that she'd have to share an office with Logan, she stormed out in a huff."
?
I was bewildered by this development:?"But?she's always shared an office with Logan."
?
"She said she?didn't want to share an office anymore,"?the other woman's shoulders lifted?a halfhearted shrug, annoyance clear in the tight set of her lips.?"Said that?you promised that she would get her own?space after the move."
?
We paused at the end of the hallway, directly before the main entrance of the office suite.? I wished I could take moment to appreciate?its simple elegance - two glass doors, unblemished by needless embellishment, bearing only the engraved title of my business: The Valenti Agency - but?my happy?recognition was overshadowed by?tart exasperation.? "I promised her no such thing," I?replied crisply, my height according a?handful of imposing inches as I gazed down upon the assistant. "She's an intern.? She should consider herself lucky to have an office at all.? Call her and tell her that if she's not back in twenty minutes, we're setting up her desk in the storage room."
?
"I'll do that," she affirmed?as she drew back one of the sleek doors, it's craftsmanship evident in the ease of utility.? The reception area was outfitted in a chic balance of modern and traditional luxury, contemporary cuts of classic materials: wood, marble, even some brick.??Original paintings?were propped along the bare walls, waiting to be placed beneath specially-designed spotlights.? There were no chairs, of course.? Our clients would never be kept waiting.
?
A?burly workman slipped by?me, bulging arms burdened by cardboard file boxes, and I caught the appreciate lick?of his eyes?along?my slender form.? Outfitted, as usual, in a close-cut suit of sedated gray, the hem of the pencil skirt hitting only an inch or so above my knees, I briefly wondered if he found me attractive.??Of course he did - I was wearing?super-high Louboutins and red lipstick.? But how attractive?? The most attractive woman he's seen this hour?? Today?? This month?? Ever? ?
?
Vanity, I'm afraid, is one of my most?dire faults.? The worst type of vanity, too: the type borne of devastating insecurity.?
?
"Did all of the files arrive?"? I inquired as I?glided?past?the reception desk on the way to my?office.??Our files were priceless stores of information, carefully coded and?categorized by?my dedicated team,?a cache of ruining?secrets about some of the most respected individuals and?organizations in the realm.??This?was my commodity - this information, these secrets -?and my talent was manipulation.?Losing even a single box had the potential to be catastrophic for the business, my family, and countless others.? The men moving them were our men.? They were armed.
?
"Almost.? The last truck is on its way.? We have 287 of the boxes."?
?
"Good."
?
When I?came?to the threshold to my office, I was grateful that my desk had already arrived.??As in the reception area, the walls and the surfaces were bare, but?the chandelier looming high above my workspace added an element of extravagance to the undressed room.?Eventually, with the addition of artwork and flowers and other niceties, it?would be perfect.?
?
"One last thing, Ms. Valenti," Joy continued?as I drifted into the open space.? "Your father called.? He needs you to call him as soon as you can."
?
"Why didn't he call my cell?" I queried, settling my chocolate Chanel handbag on the desk.
?
"It's business.? You know how he is."
?
"Old-fashioned."

I glanced through the last of the local newspapers, my glacial-blue eyes skimming the headlines for any mention of our West End body. It would have been easy to assign this responsibility to the intern, but I relished the task because it was, after all, one of our main markers for success or failure.

Nothing.

Perfect.

As I refolded the paper, my attention turned to the leather-bound notebook where I kept a tally of ?mentions.?

West End body (Greg Marcello):

Russian kidnapped by Marcello family: IIIII

Russian?s family, tearful children: IIIII II

Dead Russian, devastated family: IIIII IIIII IIII

I felt a gratifying tug at the corners of my crimson lips: a smile that I simply couldn?t deny. Our moving day drama had resolved into a tidy little anecdote for the press to obediently disseminate throughout the addled consciousness of this mad society. As I had assured my father, a beautiful, grieving wife and her young children made for a compelling and newsworthy focus. The story unfolded flawlessly.

In the midst of my satisfaction, Joy appeared in the doorway, clutching a small notebook. The secretary cast a concise glance around my office, which had been arranged almost to perfection. A vase still needed flowers, a chair begged for a move two inches to the left; these observations were noted quickly in the text she carried.

?Well,? I began, my voice a sweet melody of spirit, ?I think our Marcello event is over. The story will die away quickly enough now that Ivankov is dead. Have Mary continue to monitor it and let me know if there are any new developments.? I paused, allowing a moment for Joy to scribe her notes, my pleasant musing delving into generosity. ?Ivankov was legally employed by Harmony. Have them assume the cost for the funeral and donate some money for the children?s educations.?

Joy nodded.

Harmony was my family?s company. In all of the promotional materials, vague, socially-conscious terms were used to indicate, but never explicitly state, that it was an import company focused on improving the lives of impoverished yet industrious tribes in far-away lands. Harmony also owned a handful of other companies, which in turn also owned a handful of companies. Three degrees away from Harmony, the businesses were definitely... less socially-conscious. In fact, the whole structure was an elaborate front organization for my father?s crime syndicate. Harmony itself produced nothing but payroll and a disguise.

Incidentally, that was also why my ?PR firm? needed six lawyers on staff.

?I?ll make the calls,? Joy confirmed. ?And Ms. Shantalaine, the Plaza?s owner, sent over a list of requests.?

?Oh?? I said, recalling the spirited realtor with fond amusement. I sensed her requests would be, at the very least, entertaining.

Joy began to read the list: ?Sign the fair labor agreement.?

?About slave labor?? I laughed gently, my flawless fingers drumming once on the desktop. ?Alright. We?re not technically part of Harmony, so that?s not a problem.?

?What about Mary?? She look concerned. ?We don?t pay her.?

?She?s an intern. That?s different,? I assured patiently. ?Besides, even if we had her chained to the desk, I?d still sign it. It would be unseemly not to.?

Joy nodded abruptly and continued: ?Sign a year?s lease... that one?s already been taken care of. Agree to attend board meetings.? She glanced up at me, and I nodded my accord. ?Not be afraid of dogs.?

?Really?? I couldn?t help but laugh. ?Is this actually part of a contract??

?It?s on the list.?

?Alright.?

?Help sneak Dr. Shilo's Captain Chino drinks.?

Enjoying this immensely, I leaned forward and folded gracefully-bare arms upon the cool marble of the desktop. ?Who is Dr. Shilo and what is a Captain Chino drink??

?Dr. Euriya Shilo is a psychiatrist who runs a practice in the building and I have no clue.?

?What else is on the list??

?Try to make both Lei and Tasha smile more.? Joy glanced up again to meet my gaze, taking the initiative to elaborate with her personal notes: ?Lei works for a company called Transcendental Paranorm Facilitators, or TPF, and Tasha is an astrologist. Both also have offices here.?

?Interesting.?

?Um...Help startle Rufus or fluster him as much as possible. Rufus works with Lei at TPF. From what we?ve heard, he?s a little...stuffy.?

?I?ll get Mary on that one then. Anything else??

?One last thing. Attend the movies of Lelah's to show support. I?m still researching this one.?

?That?s fine.? With an easy smile lingering upon my lips, I reclined into the posh, pale leather of my chair, stretching the arches of dainty feet and lifting my heels from their resting place in impressive Jimmy Choos. ?Just let her know that we?re more than willing to meet her demands.?

Joy nodding again and excused herself.

I chose the Plaza for it?s architecture, but it seemed as if the people would prove just as interesting.

?Crisis in One, five minutes,? Joy interrupted, poking her head into a handful of offices, her presence heralded by repetition: the gentle click of shoes and the echo of her message.

Crisis meeting in conference room one. I was already there, sinking my pretty hands into the muck we were preparing to discuss. Knowing it would take my team a couple of minutes to gather themselves, I smoothly lifted from the supple, structural chair at the head of the table and pulled the door closed. The politician's assistant occupied a seat next to mine, ready to nervously relay the sordid, somewhat pathetic, facets of the story. As a rule, I tried to avoid unplanned meetings first thing in the morning, but this particular story had broken the evening before and required immediate attention. The politician was, after all, a friend of the family.

?Well,? he began hesitantly, ?we?re not entirely sure that it?s Mr. Wagner?s, uh, uh...?

?Picture?? I offered, more to nudge the account along than to ease his discomfort, yet ever-careful to disguise my personal distaste.

?Right,? he confirmed.

?Okay, Dave,? I leaned forward very slightly in my chair, enough to my lend an element of conspiratorial intimacy to my otherwise frosty mien. ?I know you know the truth. It?s important that I know, too. I can?t really help you, or Mr. Wagner, without it.?

?That?s what he told me,? the assistant confirmed, his fingers uneasily trifling his navy tie. I coached my clients to always be aware of their hands, for such fidgeting was perceived as a marker of guilt. ?That he doesn?t know how it happened.?

?He didn?t say his phone was stolen or that his account was hacked?? I pressed.

?No, I don?t think so.?

?Dave,? I began again, subtly establishing a sense of safety with the repetition of his name, spoken kindly, sympathetically. ?You are his personal assistant. You know Mr. Wagner?s life better than he does. How does a picture like this get broadcast to all the world, from his own account? Surely you have some special insight - anything that may be related??

The young man sighed heavily, the burden of his secrets begging to be unloaded. Finally, he responded, tentatively. ?Well, maybe. I mean, I know he, uh, communicates with several different women. Sends them, uh, texts and emails and stuff.? He paused, then added hastily: ?But I still don?t know anything about the picture.?

?Thank you,? I replied, my mind racing ahead as my contemplative eyes strayed to a well-dressed wall. ?That?s exactly what I needed to know. You see, I couldn?t care less whether or not Mr. Wagner is in the habit of photographing his genitalia. He may do whatever he likes. The problem here is that this cryptic little picture is going to shine a devastating spotlight on his illicit relationships. If there are any other pictures out there, it won?t be long before the press has those as well.?

?That?s not good,? Dave moaned.

?No, it?s not,? I agreed, tapping my slender, gold-plated pen against my notebook. A warning knock interrupted our newborn reverie as John, one of my lawyers, heralded his arrival. ?Let?s see what we can do. We need to get Mr. Wagner on the phone.?

?And then Mister...um, Mister, em. I can?t pronounce his name. He?s a barbarian warlord, and his territory has recently adopted a democracy, so he needs to figure out how to run a campaign.?

I was distracted by private meditations, my left hand turning a sterling pen over and over in expert fingers, inspiring my ostentatious wedding rings to glitter upon each subtle movement. I answered: ?He?ll have to come here. I?m not traveling to the wilderness.?

?Yes ma?am.? Joy made note.

For no other reason than simple, indistinct inspiration, I rose and drifted to the expansive window several feet behind my desk. My movements were spare and restrained, my slender figure cutting a regal silhouette against the early afternoon. There was an uncomfortably long stretch of silence as my gaze followed a young couple on the street below. They walked hand-in-hand; they were young and poorly-dressed, yet each of their steps seemed graced with the levity of love. They paused before the Plaza, gazing in awe at the marvel of a structure.

From within that structure, from beneath a sparkling chandelier and behind a polished, white-marble desktop, I gazed down.

?We can send Chris to research,? I finally continued, my voice betraying nothing of my thoughts. ?We?ll have him study the culture and political climate, so we know to whom we have to appeal when the time comes.?

?He?s embedded right now,? Joy cautioned, shifting in her chair to cross her slender ankles.

?That?s right,? I recalled, ?Dynasty.? I paused, considering the situation. Dynasty was a child company of Harmony who ostensibly imported goods from the Mount Yasuo territories, though in reality, the vast majority of their wares were illicit substances and dangerous artifacts. With reason to suspect that some of their records were being fabricated, we sent Chris - our personable, cultural guru - in to gather information directly from the Yasuans. ?Pull him out,? I concluded, ?We have enough intel to make a move. I?ll let my father know.?

?Harmony will need about a week with him to sort through everything.? Joy?s notes and observations were astute and thorough, and for that, I loved her dearly, despite the fact that she could have used a strong anti-anxiety medication. ?After that, we?ll be free to send him out again.?

?Very well.? I resumed my stately perch in the chair across the desk from my secretary. ?Then let our Barbarian friend know that The Valenti Agency would be delighted to have him as a client.?

________


I met my father for lunch the following day at a restaurant near the Plaza. When I arrived, he was already settled at a table, a dashing figure of mature refinement, endowed with precise, easy confidence. As I approached, he rose to greet me with a paternal embrace and a kiss on the cheek.

?Father,? I murmured, pursing my crimson-shaded lips in the guise of a return kiss to his cheek. ?Good to see you.?

?You?re looking lovely today, Bridget,? he praised as he pulled out my chair. I sat with a nod of thanks, and he reassumed his spot across the table. These pleasantries were very nice, but we were meeting to discuss business, so to business I went.

?We?re pulling Chris from Dynasty,? I began, ?We have what we need to disband the Board.?

Though his right palm rested idly on the tablecloth, his fingers extended in a gesture of acknowledgement, his well-groomed head dipping in a nod of similar motivation. ?That?s fine, I trust your judgement. I wanted to talk to you about something else.?

The waiter disrupted to fill our water glasses, but my father did not seem to begrudge the time to gather this thoughts. I watched him silently. He nodded his distracted thanks to the server, who promptly departed.

?Bridget, you know that everything I?ve done, everything I?ve built, has been for the family: you and your sisters, my sons-in-law, my brothers and grandchildren, nieces and nephews. You?ve made me proud. You and Vincent are the future of the family - you with the Agency, and Vincent with Harmony.? He paused in uncomfortable contemplation. ?I really miss your mother at times like this; she would know how to properly say these things.?

Even though I resented him bring up the difficult subject of my mother, I sensed that his candor was genuine. I was quiet and coldly apprehensive.

?This being a family endeavor, one thing that concerns me greatly is that the power continue to be held by my bloodline. You and Vincent need to have a child. I know that you?re both exceptionally busy, but it is absolutely imperative.?

I had to monitor my reaction very carefully. While I occasionally doubted my ability to be a nurturing figure, I had no essential qualm with the idea of motherhood. My issue came with my husband.

In seven years of marriage, my husband and I had only been intimate a handful of times. Our wedding night should have been a warning of future problems: Vince, drunk and surprisingly emotional, stammered for half an hour about my father, my virginity, and my beauty. And I was beautiful: I was an innocent young bride adorned in expensive lingerie, patiently waiting for him to decide it was time to f**k me.

That time never came that night. Or the next. Or the next.

As the days ticked away, he grew increasingly distant, and by the end of our honeymoon, we were barely speaking.

It took two months to finally consummate our marriage, and when it happened, it was far from the romantic moment I had envisioned. One morning before work, we were arguing in the kitchen, tossing around the typical snide remarks and vague accusations. My closest girlfriend had admitted to seeing him at dinner with another woman, and I chose this moment to confront him about it, hurling the accusation of an affair with spite and fury. He denied it.

?Well, who are you f**king then, because you certainly aren?t f**king me!? I screeched.

In his rage, his face was almost unrecognizable. ?You want me to f**k you? Like some whore??

Then he proceeded to toss me over the kitchen table and illustrate exactly what that meant. He ripped and pounded and called me all sorts of terrible things, he came on my face, and then he went to work.

This was the man my father had chosen for me.

For the good of the family.

?I know, dad. It?s in the plans,? I assured him, forcing my lips into a smile. ?I?m still settling into the new offices at the Plaza, but it?s not too far in the future.?

?I?d hope not,? he sighed, gazing at me with some concern, ?You?re turning 31 soon, and you?ll want to have more than one. At least two. Three would be better.? I said nothing. One would be a miracle. Satisfied that I understood the gravity of the situation, he swiftly and gratefully shifted topics: ?How are the new offices??

?Really beautiful,? I said, my voice brightening with confidence. ?I?m thinking about hosting an open house or an office-warming party.?