Read Online Faster Hotter by Colleen Masters, Hearts Collective - Free Book Online Page A

enormous desk at the owners, is all.
    The elevator whisks me up what feels like a hundred floors before depositing me in the heart of Ferrelli’s main offices. Everything about the decor is sleek and minimalist—all chrome and dark, polished wood. A prim young woman at the reception desk looks up at me and smiles.
    “You must be Ms. Lazio,” she says, “You can go right in, they’re ready for you.”
    I smile gamely and square my shoulders at the door of the corner office. Here we go. Walking with purpose and urging myself not to fall on my face, I push open the door and step inside. The room opens up before me—two full walls are made entirely of windows, and a stately wooden desk looms up across the space. I’m caught off-guard by the two handsome gentlemen who look up as I enter. The only Ferrelli owner I’ve ever met in person was Salvatore Ferrelli, an older gentleman and quite the hardass. These two men appear to be in their late thirties at the most.
    “Ms. Lazio,” says the first man, a tall, trim fellow with neat brown curls, “Thank you so much for coming in today. We know the timing is less than ideal.”
    For a moment, I think he’s referring to the fact of my newfound pregnancy. I swallow that second of panic as I realize that he’s talking about my father’s passing.
    “There’s never a good time to lose someone you love,” I reply, shaking the man’s hand, “Dad would have wanted us to jump back into work for the team he loved.”
    “He’ll be sorely missed,” says the other man, slightly shorter than the first, but broad and strong with slick, jet-black hair.
    “I hate to be rude,” I say, “But I don’t believe we’ve met before.”
    “Not at all,” says the first man, leading me toward a seat before the desk, “You’ve probably only met with my uncle, Salvatore. I’m Carlo Ferrelli.”
    “A pleasure,” I tell him, taking a seat.
    “And I’m Bruno Ferrelli,” says the dark-haired man, sitting behind the desk. “Salvatore is my father. He is still the official owner of Ferrelli, of course, but these days it's more of an honorary title. He’s been overseeing this team, and the entire Ferrelli operation, for decades. Lately, he is far more interested in his golf game than in the daily grind of this business. I can’t blame him, either. We can’t talk him into retiring just yet, but for all intents and purposes, my cousin and I are in charge these days.”
    “I guess there are quite a few members of our generation stepping up now,” I say, happy to find some common ground.
    “Indeed,” Bruno says, “We’re really very thrilled to have you take on more responsibility here on Team Ferrelli. You’ve been doing excellent work on the public relations side of things, but we’re eager to have you take on a more central role.”
    “Now, the level and intensity of your involvement is totally up to you,” Carlo cuts in, “A shareholder can be as committed as she likes, or not at all. But your voice will be heard by this team, Siena. Make no mistake.”
    “It’s our hope that you choose to be quite active in the running of this team,” Bruno says, “We don’t want you to feel like you’re just a token female shareholder that we cart out for photo ops. You were raised by one of the best strategists this sport has ever known, and you’ve already proved yourself to be an asset to this team.”
    “What you and your associates managed to do during this last season, bringing the foul play of Rafael Marques to light...it was incredible,” Carlos tells me, leaning against the front of the desk, “We need more minds like yours in this sport, Siena. That’s the truth.”
    “I...don’t know what to say,” I smile, looking back and forth between the two of them, “I came here all prepared to demand a seat at the table, but instead I found one with my name on it.”
    “You have to understand,” Bruno says, leaning toward me, “We’re not like the grey-haired, stodgy