The afternoon stretched on, and Mila lost herself in the rhythm of the work.
She cross-referenced account numbers, flagged discrepancies, and made notes in the margins before moving on to the next file.
Wash, rinse, and repeat until the files on her desk started to dwindle down.
The numbers blurred together after a while, but she kept going. She'd built three companies from the ground up, managed charity foundations with budgets that dwarfed what she was looking at now.
This was easy compared to starting from scratch with no clue what you were doing.
Tedious, but easy.
She was halfway through a particularly dense spreadsheet when the door opened again, ushering in Vincenzo.
He crossed the room with that same easy confidence, carrying a cup of coffee in one hand and a smile on his face. He approached her desk, and when he set the cup down in front of her.
"Thought you might need this."
Mila glanced at the cup, then back at him. "Thank you."
"I noticed you took your coffee with a lot of milk and sugar this morning." He gestured to the cup. "My ancestors would be rolling over in their graves if I actually called this a coffee, but it would be worth it if I got it right."
She blinked at his words, her mouth hanging open just a bit. He'd been paying attention to her when she hadn't been paying attention to him.
It was little things... like how she took her coffee... but it was more than what she was expecting.
"That's... thoughtful of you. Thank you," she said after a moment reaching up and taking the cup out of his hands.
"It's the little things that make a difference. It doesn't matter if it comes to running a company as a COO or making new friends." Vincenzo moved around to her side, leaning slightly to look over her shoulder at the file spread out in front of her. "How's it going? Besides giving you a headache?"
"It's actually not that bad," Mila replied. "But I will fully admit that the numbers are starting to blur together just a bit."
He studied the page for a moment, his gaze moving over the columns of numbers and the notes she'd made in the margins. Then he straightened, his expression warm but faintly concerned.
"You said that you were a temp, right? I am a bit worried that this might be a bit over your head." His tone was gentle, not condescending, like he was just stating facts. "But that's fine. Everyone has to start somewhere. I'm sure you will get the hang of it in no time."
Mila's jaw tightened at his choice of words before she forced herself to relax.
Over her head.
She'd restructured entire financial portfolios, negotiated seven-figure deals, managed operating budgets for organizations that employed hundreds of people. She had build sanctuary homes for people on the run, she had a team of twenty people who waited on a daily basis for her call.
She might not have a lot of money in her obvious bank account, but that was by choice. She reinvested everything she earned back into her charities.
But apparently, having only $45.00 in a single account was a sin.
Given everything she had on her plate, this spreadsheet was child's play.
But she didn't correct him, she just nodded, refusing to show her hand. No one knew who she was, and she wanted to keep it that way.
"If you need help, come find me." Vincenzo tapped the edge of her desk lightly, his smile still in place. "Dante's busy enough, there is no need to bother him with questions when I'm right here."
"I'll keep that in mind."
"Good." He glanced back at Dante, who was still buried in his own work, then returned his attention to Mila. "Don't hesitate. I mean it. I'd rather you ask than struggle through something you don't understand. It's better to take your time and do it right the first time then make a mistake and have to go back to fix it."
"I understand," Mila replied with a nod of her head. "And I appreciate your offer. If I need help, I'll make sure to find you."
Vincenzo lingered for another moment, his gaze moving over the files stacked on her desk. Then he nodded once and turned back toward Dante's desk, settling into the chair he'd claimed earlier.
Mila picked up the coffee and took a sip.
It was sweet. Too sweet for a normal person, but she felt her shoulders drop in relaxation. For her, this was perfect.
And he had noticed. He'd paid attention to how she took her coffee, remembered it, and brought her one prepared the way he thought she liked it.
It was a small thing. A kind thing.
And it made her skin crawl.
But that was her own issues, not his. She needed to learn how to appreciate the little things more.
Letting out a long breath through pursed lips, she set the cup down and turned back to the file in front of her. Her pen moved across the page, marking another discrepancy, flagging another account that didn't line up.
Over her head.
The words echoed in her mind, and she had to force herself not to bristle visibly. She wasn't some temp who didn't know what she was doing, she wasn't struggling, she wasn't in over her head.
But he thought she was.
Which meant that the image she was trying to portray was working.
But who knew that getting her own way was so... frustrating.
She wasn't sure which was worse. Being treated how she wanted to be treated, or being look on as a threat or a target.
Mila flipped to the next page and kept working. The numbers were straightforward, the patterns were easy to spot once you knew what to look for. She'd been doing this kind of work for years.
But Vincenzo didn't know that.
And she wasn't going to tell him.
She glanced up briefly, watching him as he reviewed one of Dante's reports. He looked relaxed. Comfortable. Like he belonged there. Like this was his office as much as it was Dante's.
Maybe it was.
Dante trusted him, deferred to him, asked for his advice, and took it without question.
And Vincenzo was always there, always present, always offering help.
And clearly always watching.
Mila turned back to her work and picked up her pen again.
She told herself it didn't matter. That she was being paranoid. That Vincenzo was just being kind, just trying to help, just doing what any good uncle would do.
But the coffee sat on her desk, too perfect, and the words echoed in her head.
Over your head.
She kept reading.
Because proving him wrong wasn't an option.
And asking for help wasn't either.