Craving the Mafia Prince

Chapter Eighteen | Under The Table

I struggle to stifle a yawn as I make my way into the office, the early morning light casting long shadows down the familiar corridor. My footsteps echo softly against the polished floor, mingling with the distant hum of photocopiers and the murmur of conversations starting to build in the cubicles.

Despite the weariness that clings to my bones, a smile tugs at my lips as my thoughts drift to Thea. She was a darling, always so considerate despite her own exhaustion. She'd offered to make me breakfast, even though she'd only caught a mere two hours of sleep herself. I can still see the determined look on her face as she insisted I sit with her and share a meal before I left for work.

A soft chuckle escapes me as I recall how she fell asleep with a piece of toast in her mouth, her head bobbing perilously close to the plate. If it weren't for my quick reflexes, she would've ended up face first in an omelette. The image of her, slumped over the table, her breathing slow and steady, brought a warmth to my chest that I couldn't quite shake.

I push open the door to my office and step inside, the familiar scent of paper welcoming me. As I settle into my chair, I let out a long sigh, the weight of the day ahead pressing down on me. But in the back of my mind, there's still Thea, her sleepy smile and the way she always makes everything feel just a little bit brighter.

Unlike my office back at the estate, my office in the city lacked any personal touches. There were no photo frames adorning the walls, no sign of my grandfather's cherished rocking chair, and not even a glimpse of my gun box. I wouldn't say I hated it, but I certainly didn't love it either. It felt sterile, a place designed for pure business and nothing more.

As I glanced around at the sleek sofa sets and modern coffee tables, I vaguely remembered selecting the designs over the phone. The space exuded a cold, clinical efficiency that served its purpose well. Here, there was no room for sentimentality or nostalgia. This was a place where decisions were made, deals were struck, and power was wielded.

Sitting in my high-backed leather chair, I could play god. The thought sent a shiver down my spine, a mix of exhilaration and unease. This office was a far cry from the comfort and familiarity of the estate, yet it was a testament to my authority and control in the business world. And in this chair, I could shape destinies with the stroke of a pen or the click of a button.

Hunter's here." Nate opened the doors to my office, stepping aside to allow a lean man to enter.

Hunter moved with a predatory grace, his eyes scanning the room with a quick, assessing glance. He was the kind of man who seemed to notice everything, and I could tell from the way his gaze flicked from one detail to another that he was taking in more than just the decor. His presence commanded attention, a silent declaration of his competence and confidence.

"Good to see you, Hunter," I said, rising from my chair and extending a hand. He grasped it firmly, his grip solid and unyielding. We exchanged a brief nod, the kind that passed for a greeting among men like us—efficient, devoid of unnecessary words.