Don't Fall For The Mob Boss Son

Chapter one - Jessica Moy

Eyes and mouth agape, I stare in disbelief at the man seated in disbelief at the man seated in front of me. Did he just say what I think he said?

"I don't understand, sir," I mutter in a low voice, fighting the bike suddenly churning in my stomach. He burst into a garrulous laugh, his protruding belly in a self-assured way.

"You're not a child, my dear. Surely, you don't need me to spell it out for you, "he says, reaching to adjust his spectacle over his broad nose. "Nothing in this world goes for free."

"But ... Mrs Elizabeth said I was qualified for this ... this promotion..."

"So why are you suggesting... why are you saying this?"

My heart is beating so fast, I can almost feel the vibration in my chest. How the hell can this be happening?

Last week, my supervisor called me to her office for a meeting to discuss my future. About time. I've been at the mobile network firm Zilteck for six years, working my a*s off and going nowhere. No advancement, no pay rise.

So, I was thrilled when Mrs Elizabeth told me that she'd put my name in for a promotion. Apart from the much needed, fifteen-percent salary boost, I would finally be eligible for the company's health and welfare insurance program.

"Yes You're eligible for promotion, but so are the other five people competing with you. What makes you think you deserve it more?"

"Well, sir ... " I stop and clear my throat. "I've worked here for over six years, and brought in a lot of clients"

He wave his hand to silence me, and then, resume his belly rub. "All well and good, but that's not how your mates got their promotions. You scratch my back, I scratch yours. Simple."

"And ... What does scratching your back entail?"

My question comes out in an almost inaudible whisper, but I can hear the laughter from Mr Jones resounding loudly in my ears.

"Like I said, you aren't a child, he says with a voice that now sounds icy, all the playfulness of a few moments ago long gone gone.

His gaze locks with mine, and the hairs on my neck stand on end. Sweat trickles between my shoulder blades. A shrewdness has replaced the usually benign spark in his irises. He is no longer the jovial boss who calls out cheery greetings to everyone he passes on his way to the fifth floor.

It's like the invasion of the body snatchers. Someone has replaced Mr Jones, the firm's general manager, with an imposter. I don't recognize the devil sitting behind this desk with the balls to make such an indecent demand before he gives me a promotion that's rightfully mine.

"All smart woman know why they are women." He rubs his palms together and slides his tongue over his lips tongue over his lips as his eyes glide over me recoil and want to pull the ends of my coat together.

"You are beautiful. Sexy. Use what the good Lord gave you to get what you want."

Dumbfounded by his audacity, I remain mute, unable to shoot a word past my lips.

"Take some time to think about it, my dear, "he says. I'll be here on the 25th of this month, and if your answer is yes, you'll get your promotion."

"Sir.. " I begin, desperate to counter his assumption that I'd entertain this madness for even one second.

Stand up, my mind screams. Tell him to go to hell and to take his job and his promotion with him. I open my mouth, but the words stick in my throat. And even if I could unstick them, my tongue feels glued to the top of my mouth. I can't speak.

"Don't worry, my dear, you're hardly the first, and definitely not the last, "he says in a dismissive tone.

"Ask your own supervisor about how she got her own promotion"

Without another word or glance at me, he turns his attention to the desktop in front of him and begins typing on his keyboard, effectively ending our interaction.

Stiff as a board, my mind thrown into complete befuddlement, I rise to my feet and walk out of the office, my gaze lowered to the floor.

Think about it.

As I stumbled down the hall, his words buzz like angry killer bees in my head. My throat is tight with tears, but I bite down on my lower lip, fighting it. Why should I be the one crying instead of the disgusting man back there? What have I done wrong?

Pressing the down arrow on the elevator multiple times, I swallow hard, hoping to hell I don't bump into anyone on my way back to my first floor office.

The elevator chimes and the door slides open. It's empty. Thank God for small mercies. Having a deep sign, I step in and squeeze my eyes shut, still pushing back the tears that seem determined to flow.

My mind spins and my stomach churns on the interminable lift ride down. I feel nauseated and somewhat dirty, like I need a bath for simply being in the room with Mr Jones.

Is this my fault? Did I give him a desperate vibe? A runs babe vibe? I lift my head and glance at my reflection in the elevator mirror.

Is it because there's a hint of cleavage peeking out from the top of my camisole? Are my clothes too provocative for the workplace? I pull my black pants suit jacket together and hide my chest.

Maybe I'm too chatty, too friendly. At that, I flash back to the last office Christmas party. Oh, God.

Mr Jones asked me to dance. I could hardly say no, but did he misinterpret that?

I cover my mouth with my palms, face warm with embarrassment at the memory of my moves on the dance floor shaking my ample booty as I danced with almost every make staff member in attendance. Had Mr Jones noticed? Is that why?

I give my head a vigorous shake. No, couldn't be. He'd danced with my other female colleagues, and I wasn't the only one dancing and having fun. Lisa, Ella, Zoe and rissa were right there with me. All young women at the same level in the company as me. So, that can't be it.

Doubt floods my senses as I amble out of the elevator. Maybe I'm not the asset to Zilteck I imagine myself to be. Maybe sleeping with the boss is the only way he can justify my promotion.

I walk through the long corridor and into my own tiny cubicle at the end of the large office space, careful to avoid eye contact with my four office mates. Nobody says a word to me as I settle onto my seat. The silence is eerie, as if the entire office knows what just happened to me.

Still keeping my gaze averted, I switch on my computer, my mind whirling in scattered circles, myriad emotions clutching at my chest. The most prominent and devastating of all, a heart piercing shame.

Why am I still here? Why am I not packing up my stuff in a box and getting the hell out of this place?

It's not too late to salvage my self respect. I could retrace my elevator ride, storm into Mr Jones office, and quit. The very thought fills me with a heart elation.

And a sinking dread.

I open the database software and continue inputting the numbers. Just like I do every day.

for the rest of the day I carried on as if nothing has happened. like a zombie on the inside, but behaving business as usual on the outside. None of my co-workers ask me how my promotion interview went. in a way I'm glad I don't have to lie or explain to anyone why I'm still here after such an indecent proposal. But somewhere deep inside me, disappointment simmers.

Maybe if someone asked, I'd talk about it, share with them how totally confused I feel. How surprised and ashamed I am that I didn't throw his proposal back in his face and walk out of the building without a backward glance.

Maybe if the person asked me why I didn't, I'd come up with an answer.

Five hours later, I push open the door of my home, still numb and unable to fully process what's going on with me. Am I really considering this?

I'm thirty one years old, still living hand to mouth, working at a gruelling job with a salary that barely cover my monthly bills. This is my chance to earn a little more, to finally be able to afford a bit better for myself without needing to always borrowed money from my brother.

As it is, I already owe him nearly a million naira. Not that he cares. He told me not to pay him back but that doesn't sit well with me it's just not in my nature to be in debt even to family.

To enhance my income, I've tried so many side gigs, selling hair extensions, selling clothes, selling bags and selling shoes. None have been profitable.

With a drawn out sign, I sink into the soft cushion of my sitting room couch. Bending forwards, I peel off my six inche stilettos and toss them on the floor.

One would think I'd have better employment luck. I certainly thought so with my second class upper degree in Mass communications from sandhill college. But the frightfully expensive private University hasn't done a thing for me. In fact, after a year long, bank internship for my compulsory youth service, I ended up unemployed for nearly eleven months, living off my brother.

I only managed to land a job at Zilteck with my best friend's help. If Sarah hadn't connected me with a friend of hers who worked there, I'd probably owe my brother a few million more naira. And even with job, here I am stuck at the same level six years later. No salary increment, no career progress, and no way to quit. The economy is horrid right now, and there are simply no jobs out there.

that's why learning I had finally be recommended for promotion made me come alive with excitement. At last, some hope, a welcome silver lining, some good news to hang onto and now just like the sudden detonation of a bomb that dream has been shattered and I've been catapulted back ing to reality. I'll have to either sell my soul to get what i deserve or quit and have nothing at all .

Letting out another weary sigh, I pull out the tablet in my bag and lean back on the couch. Using the numeric passcode, I unlock it and click open the Cupidess dating app. My last ditch effort at the entrepreneurship.

When I had the idea to start a dating site three years ago, I was convinced the venture would take off. Inspired by my love for romance novels, I hoped it would be a safe space for people to find love.

Men and women who passed security background checks would register for a monthly fee and input information on what they were looking for in a partner into the data. The database would search for possible matches based on similarities and compatibility.

Pumped by the innovation of it all, I implored Brenda invest. And just like always, my bestie turned sister in law was all in. With her backing, we were off and running.

At first, Cupidess garnered mega interest. The site grew fast, even to the brink of Making a profit after just a year.

I even found my ex boyfriend Josh on the app. And although the relationship fizzled out several months later because he moved away from Lagos, we had a wonderful time together .

Too bad that just like the relationship, Cupidess started to fizzle out too and poof ... there went my ambitious dream for a cutting edge dating website.

Nicking the inner membrane of my cheek with my teeth, I click on the website analytics and my stomach convulses. Another ten people have deactivated their accounts in the past week, Making a total of thirty in a month.

Not their fault I guess in a bad economy which is getting worse everyday only few people can afford to pay to find love. Everyone's trying to survive and with a monthly subscription of four thousand naira, the cheapest I could make it and not run off a massive loss it's just not stainable for the consumers or me.

I drag my thumb across the screen. Very soon I'll have to deactivate the website, and put an end to what I hoped would be the breakthrough to my real dream to host a television talk show about relationships and life just like Oprah Winfrey, my idol.

I blow out a harsh laugh, if I can't even make an online app work how on earth will I successfully pitch the idea to a television network?

The tears I've been holding back since my meeting with Mr Jones begin to fall down my eyes. Wiping at my cheeks angrily, I continue to stare at the screen of my Samsung tablet, my gaze fixed on my dating app I believed would launch me into showbiz.

What a b****y shame. Three years gone down the drain. The ultimate joke is I thought this would be so successful that I wouldn't need to work at Zilteck or anywhere. Now, I have a terribly hard decision to make about that awful job.

The tablet pings, jarring me from my sorrowful musings.

you have a new message from Cupidess.

I look at the username. Justin Smith?

I let out an annoyed hiss, what i***t is using a celebrity's name and picture on my dating site, trying to deceive unwitting women. As if the famous Nigerian British actor, starring in one of the most popular drama series on the London BAC-TV network, would be looking for love on a Nigerian dating site. I should deactivate this account and save a lot of women from alot of trouble. In fact, I'll have a word with the company I use for the background checks required for all Cupidess users. How on earth did they manage this slip up?

Twisting my lips into a sneer, I click open the message. Irritation prickles my skin as I read.

Justin Smith: I'm intrigued by you and want to get to know you better,

Jessica please reply to my message.

"Mtchew!" I hiss again. "You chose the wrong time to bug me, buddy!"

He obviously thinks I'm one of those ditsy chicks who's so desperate for a man, I'll believe anything. A man not confident enough to use his own profile name and picture to interest women is completely useless.

"Not today, Satan," I mutter, grinding my teeth as I poise my fingers on the lower half of the tablet.

With my lips pressed into thin lines, I begin to tap rapidly on the screen, letting my entire day's frustration flow from my chest, through my fingertips, and into every word I type in response to the i***t.

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