Sex and the Billionaire Crime Boss

Ch. 8: New Business

It's Monday morning. The law firm is located in one of the newer office towers on Brickell Avenue in the financial district dominated by high-end law firms and accounting firms.

I take a deep breath as the elevator whisks me up to the 50th floor. The doors open directly into the lobby, where the law firm decor exudes a timeless elegance. The receptionist sits behind a wide mahogany counter that gives the appearance of finely crafted furniture.

The art in the reception area is tasteful and classic and looks like it belongs on a museum wall. When I glance across the reception area, I expect to see a large conference room with a panoramic view. Instead, I see a wall adorned only with a few recessed niches that hold vases with fresh flowers.

Odd. Several of my law school friends ended up at fancy Philadelphia firms in towers much like this one. Without exception, the interior walls were glass, and my friends would joke that it was so anyone getting off the elevator would see a conference room full of lawyers in expensive suits conducting depositions or holding closings on real estate deals. It conveyed the message that important business matters were being handled by top attorneys.

I wonder what kind of message my grandfather wants to send with his wall, closing off the view of whatever happens behind it.

I walk toward the reception desk, surprised that my stomach feels a little queasy. I remind myself that I can turn right around and walk out the door whenever I want. I still have a job waiting for me back in Philadelphia, and I have three months to decide where I belong.

I'm here because there are things I want to know, things my father has refused to discuss with me. It was my decision to come here. I'm in control.

Before I have a chance to introduce myself, the receptionist looks up and smiles at me. "Good morning, Ms. Reese. I'm Jenny. Let me just let Martina know you're here."

I frown. "It's Jones," I correct her. "Hadley Reese Jones."

"Of course. My apologies. I just assumed..."

I let her voice just trail off while I wonder why my grandfather never bothered to tell the people who work for him what my actual name is.

"It's fine," I reassure her, remembering Martina's offhand comment about how Mr. Reese would fire her if she failed in her mission to take me shopping. I certainly don't want Jenny, who looks very sweet, to be worried about offending me and risking her job security.

Jenny is wearing a headset and apparently has already made an interoffice call to Martina, because she says, "Martina will be right out. You can take a seat if you like. Can I get you coffee or tea?"

"I'm fine," I say. Before I can sit down, Martina appears from one of the hallways.

"Welcome, Ms. Jones," she says. "Let me show you to your office."

"Why so formal?" I ask the person I got ridiculously drunk with on Saturday night as we head down the hallway.

"It's required," she says in a low voice. "We can be informal if we're in a private office with no clients around, but in the common areas, the staff call the lawyers Mr. or Ms., and everybody calls Mr. Reese Mr. Reese."

I snort under my breath. "Well, I'm not calling my grandfather Mr. Reese."

I thought this kind of formality went out twenty years ago. A thought flashes through my mind that things will be different when my grandfather retires and I'm running this place, then I catch myself up.

Do I even want to ever take over this law firm? And is that really what my grandfather intends?

The atmosphere is hushed as we walk past offices. The polished cherry flooring continues down the hallways, but is covered by tasteful runner rugs, which help maintain a hushed atmosphere. Our high heels make no noise on the carpeted surface.