Page 27 of Claimed By the Ruthless King

My eyelids droop, my own pleasure forcing them to close. I give in, allowing my eyes to shut. An image of the crow forms as soon as I close them. I visualize the wings spreading across my boss’s chest and mull over crimes he could be committing now, right under the company’s nose; things far worse than vandalizing and shoplifting; things worthy of a lifelong prison sentence, stuff that would shock even ER nurses.

Breaking noses could be the tip of the iceberg for all I know. The muscles contracting under Salvatore’s shirt look like they were built outside of the gym in the real world, hitting real people, ruining real lives.

And yet, the thought of my boss using violence, breaking someone’s nose to get what he wants, exhilarates me, pushing me right to the edge of my desire.

I splay my hands over my boss’s shoulders, feeling incredible muscles contract, wondering how he trains these muscles in his spare time to get them looking and feeling like this. Mr. Moretti is respected, feared; swooned over by every woman on the continent, and most importantly, has a thousand other places he needs to be.

And yet the man is right by my side, in no rush to leave, even after he finishes deep inside, leaving me dripping with his cum for a moment while he disappears to the restroom to grab tissue.

“How generous of you,” I say as he cleans me, my legs still spread wide in front of the window as he moves tissue over my inner thighs.

“My pleasure.” He trashes the tissue, turning his back on me to glance out of the window, the sun arching in the sky, streaks of golden light landing in various parts of the city.

“It’s quite the view up here.”

“Indeed,” he says to the window, arms folded over his chest.

His back muscles pop through the white shirt. My hands itch to touch him again, to appreciate how much power this man exerts. But sex changes very little. We’re still strangers, and walls go back up as soon as the clothes are on…

Interestingly, Mr. Moretti is adamant on keeping those walls high. A man built like a Roman Gladiator should have no issues taking off his shirt upon request. Mr. Moretti has posed for Vogue in the past. The clothes stay on, but the pursed lips and confident eyes suggest, on the surface of things, he has no insecurities…

Except maybe the crow tattoo, as he caught me staring at it the first time.

I hop down from the desk, grab my purse from the mahogany cabinet where I dumped it.

“Enjoy the rest of your day, sir,” I say, clamping the purse under my armpit, ready to take off when I see a single A4 sheet of paper placed on the shelf below where I dumped my purse.

Since Mr. Moretti still has his back turned, gazing out at the city, I sneak a glance at the paper. Detective Ophelia Bennet is officially in the building… only I have no idea what I’m searching for here.

75 Queens Blvd, Queens, NY, 11373 is the address that has been noted down on the piece of paper.

I frown, trailing my finger over the address briefly before returning the document to its home. This is nothing unusual. Addresses are noted down all the time so Mr. Moretti knows exactly where to meet people when he is leaving the office for meetings. But as his assistant, it is my job to take note of these addresses, not the other way around...

I flash Mr. Moretti a smile as he heads to the door, seeing me out.

“You enjoy the rest of your evening.”

“Yes,” I say, an awkward silence stretching between us as I bid him goodbye. “See you tomorrow.”

My legs carry me to the elevator. I slide in when the doors open, staring vacantly into space on my way down.

I blink and I’m back at my apartment, the commute home a complete fucking blur as I spent the entire time mulling over my boss and our changed relationship…

And how this could affect me and my reputation.

Cozying up to Mr. Moretti is dangerous, but my mother warned me about the Crows for a reason. Secrets are constantly drifting through this city, hiding in plain sight. All I have to do is open my eyes to see the truth, and it starts by networking with the right people.

I slip the sketch from my purse, opening it back up, staring at the wings, the slightly opened beak. I’m missing something here. Perhaps the answers are staring me right in the face.

I pick myself off the couch and walk into my bedroom, tearing open my closet door, staring at my mother’s clothes.

My gaze lands on the blue pocket dress. Unhooking it from the rail, I lay it flat on my bed, staring at the garment, waiting for answers to find me.

The words MADE IN TUSCANY are written across the label, followed by the numbers: 11373. This is a code usually linked to the manufacturer.

But the garment was handmade by an Italian designer. There would be no registered identification number, no manufacture linked to an item of clothing that has been handmade by an independent designer.

I stare at the numbers, something clicking in my brain as I read the label, the five digit numbers transforming me back to Mr. Moretti’s office. Zip codes consist of five numbers…