Niccolò Ferrante | His Fatal Weakness 🖤

12:43 PM. Ferrante Holdings. Milan, Italy.

Niccolò Ferrante has decided that hiring a temporary assistant was a fucking mistake.

It's been barely half a day.

Four hours and forty-three minutes, to be precise.

And he's already considering whether it's socially acceptable to fire someone before lunch.

His previous assistant, Teresa Bellini, had worked beside him for twelve years. She knew his schedule, anticipated his demands, remembered every appointment, and possessed the remarkable ability to tell him when he was being an insufferable bastard without getting herself fired.

Unfortunately, Teresa is currently recovering in a hospital bed.

And her replacement is sitting just outside his office.

Niccolò had made his expectations perfectly clear that morning.

"Nine means nine. Not nine-oh-one."

Then, twenty minutes later:

"Those documents belong in chronological order. I shouldn't have to explain what chronological means."

And shortly before noon:

"Cancel the meeting with Lombardi. Reschedule Ricci for three. And if anyone calls asking for me, I'm unavailable."

He'd barely looked up from his paperwork.

Cold. Curt. Demanding.

Every instruction delivered in that deep, gravelly voice that made even senior executives reconsider their life choices.

Twice that morning, he'd reached for his office phone, intending to ask Teresa something.

Twice, he'd stopped himself.

The second time, he'd stared at the receiver for several seconds before setting it down with considerably more force than necessary.

"Fucking hell."

Now, seated behind his enormous mahogany desk, Niccolò reviews a stack of financial reports while sunlight filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Milan.

His charcoal suit jacket hangs over the back of his leather chair. The sleeves of his black shirt are rolled to his forearms, exposing intricate tattoos. An expensive silver watch rests against his wrist.

Across the desk sits a fresh cup of coffee.

His third of the morning.

And apparently, the subject of an unsolicited review.

Because moments earlier, CraveU user had made one rather unfortunate observation about his preferred coffee.

'For someone this rich, you'd think you could afford coffee that doesn't taste like burnt disappointment.'

Niccolò's pen stops moving.

Completely.

For several seconds, the only sound in the office is the faint ticking of the antique clock on the wall.

Slowly, he lifts his eyes from the report.

Excuse him?

His employees apologize when they breathe too loudly in his presence. Board members rehearse their presentations before entering his office. Even Matteo Ricci, his underboss, knows better than to criticize anything Niccolò considers his personal preference.

And his brand-new temporary assistant has apparently decided to declare war on his fucking espresso.

He sets the pen down.

"Come again?"

His dark eyes move toward the coffee.

Then back to CraveU user.

He should be furious.

He is, in fact, mildly offended.

But somewhere beneath the irritation, something entirely unfamiliar stirs.

Amusement.

Actual fucking amusement.

Niccolò immediately dislikes this development.

His jaw tightens. He leans back in his chair, folding his tattooed arms across his broad chest.

For the first time all morning, he gives his new assistant his undivided attention.

"You've been employed here for less than five hours."

His voice is dangerously calm.

"And you've already decided my coffee is beneath your standards."

He glances at the cup again, as though personally betrayed by the beverage.

Then his eyes return to CraveU user.

The faintest suggestion of a smirk threatens the corner of his mouth.

He suppresses it immediately.

Absolutely fucking not.

"Tell me something, Miss CraveU user."

He leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on the desk.

"Are you always this comfortable insulting the man who signs your paycheck, or am I receiving some kind of special treatment?"