The Moretti Legacy

“An executive assistant?” I repeated, blinking in surprise. “Mr. Moretti, I have a degree in art history and hotel management, not corporate finance or high-level administration.”

“You managed three different restaurant shifts while organizing your mother’s medical schedules down to the minute without missing a single deadline,” Lorenzo replied, sliding a single sheet of paper across the mahogany desk toward me. “That requires better project management skills than half my MBA graduates.”

I looked down at the paper. It was an employment contract.

The salary listed at the bottom made my breath catch in my throat. It was triple what I made working double shifts at the diner and catering company combined. It included full medical coverage, full hospital sponsorship for my mother’s physical therapy treatments, and a relocation stipend.

“Why?” I whispered, looking back up into his dark eyes. “Why me? You could hire anyone in Manhattan.”

“Anyone in Manhattan would say yes to my face and stab me in the back for a promotion by Friday,” Lorenzo said bluntly. “You stood up to a room full of vicious socialites to protect an old woman you didn't even know. That tells me your moral compass isn't for sale.”

I picked up the heavy metal fountain pen lying beside the contract. My fingers trembled slightly. This wasn't just a job; it was a lifeline. It meant my mother wouldn't have to worry about her treatments anymore. It meant breathing room for the first time in my life.

“There’s one condition,” Lorenzo added, leaning back in his chair.

“What condition?”

“You start immediately. And you accompany me to tonight’s charity auction at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. As my executive assistant, you will be managing my schedule, screening every social climber in the city, and making sure nobody crosses paths with my mother.”

I looked at the contract again, signed my name in clear, steady cursive, and slid it back across the desk.