His Kryptonite

Chapter 8

Laila's POV

I hate Michael Rizzuto with every fiber of my being. Ever since he barged into my personal life a week ago, my papà has been breathing down my neck incessantly. I've lost his trust, and now I'm trapped in a life resembling that of a princess locked in her castle. To make matters worse, Papà is pulling me out of all the Cosa Nostra's affairs for now, which deeply bothers me because he had always promised that I would be his successor.

It's all Michael's fault, but I'm oddly grateful that he hasn't revealed the truth to my father—the fact that I danced with a man at the bar and accepted a ride home from him. I can only imagine how much worse things would be if Papà knew.

Michael has visited our firm twice already this week, and each time, he has shot me icy glares, as he always does. I'm growing weary of his relentless efforts to show me how much he despises me. I hate him too, but I choose to conserve my energy. It would be better if he did the same.

I'm constantly struggling to control my temper and refrain from yelling at him to get a life or, at the very least, appoint a delegate so that I don't have to encounter him so frequently. However, my hopes for that are slim. I spoke to Katerina, the receptionist, and she informed me that bosses are usually micromanaging their assets, and that when Vito was a free man, he'd swung by the office almost everyday. Michael doesn't have the same managing style however: Katerina didn't expect to see him as often, but she said it wasn't very surprising. Yet, strangely, sometimes I feel like he's seriously just trying to annoy me.

I make my way back to the firm, clutching a sandwich and a salad bowl from the café down the street. As always, I am greeted by the people at the reception floor, who acknowledge me due to my status as the CEO's daughter. I press the reserved elevator button and step inside. When I turn around, my eyes lock with none other than Michael Rizzuto, dressed in his signature black suit and white dress shirt, walking towards the elevator accompanied by Renato.

"Hold it!" Renato calls out to me.

Ignoring his plea, I frantically press the close button like a woman possessed. I observe with satisfaction as the doors begin to shut, offering me a momentary victory in this ongoing battle. Michael and I exchange defiant glances, locked in a silent standoff. The doors are almost sealed shut, and just as I'm about to relish my small triumph, my heart sinks as a hand forcefully pushes the doors back open. It's a good Samaritan, likely someone who noticed the boss's presence and decided to lend a helping hand. Just great, my luck knows no bounds.

Michael's intense gaze remains fixed on my petite frame, growing even darker as he steps into the elevator.

"Didn't you see me wave, ragazza?!" Renato asks, his frustration evident.

"No," I respond, pressing my lips together tightly as I lean against the side of the elevator. I have no desire to stand beside Michael or have him positioned behind me, in case he decides to seize my throat and choke me with his bare hands. Absolutely not.

To my surprise, Michael mirrors my actions and leans against the opposite wall, placing us face to face. Meanwhile, Renato leans against the third wall, engrossed in his cellphone.

Michael continues to gaze at me with his intense eyes, clearly trying to intimidate me, but I refuse to waver. I hold his gaze, knowing that it bothers him. However, for some inexplicable reason, I also sense that he won't harm me.

Despite Papà's insistence that Michael is worse than Vito, I have a feeling his judgment is flawed. The more I interact with Michael, the less intimidating he becomes. Perhaps I'm simply blinded by his undeniable handsomeness, because let's face it; this man may be an asshole, but he's hot. I have no complaint about this.