LOVE IN AISLE 5

The warehouse in Brooklyn had never been this quiet. Eunice had worked in Aisle 5 for two years. Packing, counting, stacking imported ceramics. She knew every sound — the forklift beeping, the old heater rattling, the supervisor yelling, the rain hitting the metal roof. But today, all of it stopped. The machines were off. The girls were not gossiping. Even the heater was silent. Because he was coming. "Everyone in a line! Phones away! No talking! Do not look him in the eye!" Her supervisor was sweating through his shirt, his hands shaking as he fixed his tie. "Mr. Moretti is coming for inspection. If one crate is missing, we all lose our jobs!" Eunice had never seen Mr. Moretti. She only heard the stories in the break room. That he owned half the warehouses on the docks. That he was mafia. That he didn't smile, he collected. That last year, a driver who stole from him disappeared. She was scared, but not like the others. She held her clipboard tighter. The big steel shutter rolled up with a loud metal scream. Cold air rushed in from the docks. And he walked in. He walked in with two men in black behind him. Tall, dark hair, black wool coat that touched his knees. No smile. His face was sharp, like stone. His eyes scanned the entire warehouse like he owned every box and every person in it. Eric Moretti. The rumors did not do him justice. He was younger than she expected, maybe early thirties, but his eyes looked older. Tired and dangerous. He stopped right in front of Aisle 5. His Aisle. "Who runs this aisle?" His voice was low and calm. Too calm. The supervisor pushed Eunice forward, almost making her fall. "She does, sir. Eunice. She's good, sir. Very good." Eunice's heart was pounding so loud she thought he could hear it. She was holding her clipboard tight. Faded warehouse vest, hair tied up in a messy ponytail, no makeup, old sneakers that she cleaned every night. She felt invisible next to him. Eric looked at her. Slowly. From her messy ponytail, to her tired eyes, to her clipboard, to her sneakers, to her hands. "Name," he said. "Eunice, sir." "Eunice what?" "Eunice Cole, sir." He took a step closer. Close enough that she could smell his cologne. Expensive. Dark. Wood and smoke. "Look at me when you talk to me, Eunice Cole." She looked up. His eyes were gray and cold, but something hot was hiding behind them. "How many crates in Aisle 5?" he asked. "One thousand four hundred and twenty, sir. Twenty came in yesterday. I haven't logged them yet." "You haven't logged them yet?" He raised an eyebrow. "Because the system crashed, sir. I wrote it down by hand. I stayed late to write it." She held out the clipboard. Her hand was shaking. He didn't take the clipboard. He took her hand to steady it. His fingers were warm, rough. Big hands. Eunice froze. "You shake," he said quietly, so only she could hear. "Are you scared of me?" "I don't know you, sir." "Everybody knows me. That's why they shake." "I'm not everybody." That made him pause. For a second, the whole warehouse held its breath. A small, dangerous smile touched his mouth for the first time. "No, you're not," he whispered back. "I can see that." He looked at her notes. Her handwriting was neat. Perfect. "You have beautiful writing," he said, louder now. "For a warehouse girl." "Thank you, sir." He closed the clipboard and gave it back, his fingers lingering on hers. His thumb brushed her wrist, just once. "How old are you?" "Twenty-three, sir." "Twenty-three." He said it like he was tasting it. "You live alone?" The question was too personal. Eunice stepped back. "I... yes, sir. Why?" "Because this floor is dangerous," he said, looking down at her old sneakers. "You need proper boots. Steel toe. And you don't wear a hat in my warehouse anymore. I want to see your face when I come. Do you understand?" The supervisor nodded fast. "Yes, Mr. Moretti! Boots! No hat!" Eric started to walk away, then stopped. "And Eunice," "Yes, sir?" "Don't ever make me wait for my inventory again. I don't like waiting. I am a very impatient man." "I won't, sir." "I know you won't." His eyes dropped to her lips for one second, then back to her eyes. "From now on, you report only to me. No man enters Aisle 5 without my permission. Understood?" Eunice swallowed. "Understood." He left. The shutter closed with a bang. The whole warehouse started breathing again. The girl next to her, Maria, grabbed her arm and whispered, "Oh my God, Eunice. He never talks to staff. He never touches anyone. You're in trouble. Big trouble." Eunice looked down at her hand. Where he touched her, it was still warm. She didn't know if she had just been fired, or claimed. Outside, in the black SUV, Eric told his driver, his voice cold and possessive, "Get me everything on the girl in Aisle 5. Eunice Cole. Where she lives, who she talks to. Everything. In one hour." "Yes, boss." "And put a guard on Aisle 5. No one goes near her." The guard arrived ten minutes later. Big, silent, arms crossed at the entrance of Aisle 5. He did not speak. He just stood there like a statue. The other girls stared. They whispered about Eunice. They said she must have slept with the boss. They said she was lucky. They did not know she had never even been touched before like that. She spent her lunch alone in Aisle 5 that day, sitting on a crate, holding her new boots box, not understanding why her heart would not stop beating. She tried to focus on work. She counted again. 1,420. She cleaned the dust. She rearranged the ceramics. But every time she closed her eyes, she saw his gray eyes. She felt his thumb on her wrist. Eunice was not supposed to be alone. It was 9:47 PM. The warehouse was supposed to close at 9. But the last truck was late, and her supervisor left her with the keys. "Just lock Aisle 5 and leave. It's not safe at night," he said. But she waited. Because 1,420 crates had to be 1,420 crates. The lights buzzed. Half of them were off. The Brooklyn warehouse at night felt like a different building. Too big. Too quiet. She was in Aisle 5, counting again. She wore the new boots. They were at her locker this evening, brand new Timberland, size 7, her exact size, with a note: For Aisle 5. The guard said Mr. Moretti sent them. She didn't know how he knew her shoe size. She felt cold and hot at the same time. Then she heard it. The steel shutter rolling up again. That same metal scream. Her blood froze. "Hello? We are closed!" No answer. Footsteps. Slow, heavy boots on concrete. She stepped out from Aisle 5, her breath coming fast. And there he was. Eric Moretti. No coat this time. Just a black shirt, sleeves pushed up, tattoos on his forearm she didn't see before. He was alone. "Mr. Moretti? What are you doing here?" Her voice was shaking. "How did you enter?" "You didn't log out," he said calmly. "The system shows Aisle 5 is still open. I get an alert for Aisle 5." "I was finishing the count." "I know." He walked closer. Each step was slow. "I was watching. On my phone." "You were watching?" "On camera." He pointed to the small camera in the corner. "I saw you stayed. Alone. For two hours. You didn't eat." Eunice backed up. Her back hit a stack of crates. "Why did you come here alone at night, sir? You could have called me." "Because you are alone at night." He stopped right in front of her. Too close. "I told you, no man enters Aisle 5 without my permission." "There is no driver. He didn't come." "I know he didn't come. I told him not to come." Eunice's eyes widened. "You told him not to come? So I would wait here alone?" "Yes." "Why?" "So you would be alone." He said it honestly. "So I could talk to you without 40 people listening." Her breath was fast now. She could feel his heat. "You could have talked to me this morning." "This morning you had 40 people watching you. I don't like people watching what's mine. I don't share." "I'm not yours." He smiled. That dangerous small smile again. "Not yet. But you will be." He took the clipboard from her hand and put it gently on the crate behind her. Now both her hands were empty. "1,420?" he asked, his voice low. "What?" "The count. Is it 1,420?" "Yes, sir." "Good girl." Two words. Her knees almost gave way. "Do you know how long I've owned this warehouse, Eunice?" "No, sir." "Eight years. And in eight years, no one has ever kept Aisle 5 this clean. This perfect." "It feels like home sometimes." "I know. You live in a studio on 3rd Street. Second floor. The heater doesn't work and the window leaks. You pay $900." Eunice froze. "How do you know where I live?" "I get everything on what I want. And I want you, Eunice Cole." "That is not okay." "I can do whatever I want, Eunice. I am the mafia. Remember?" He leaned in. There was no space left between them. "If I wanted to, I could fire everyone in this building and keep only you. Because that's where you are. Do you understand what you do to me?" "Why are you saying all this?" She whispered. Tears were coming to her eyes. "I am just a warehouse girl." "Because you looked at me this morning like no one else does. Not scared. Just honest. You said, 'I'm not everybody.' For eight years, no one dared to say that to me." He touched her. Just one finger under her chin, lifting her face up to him. His touch was gentle. "Tell me to leave, and I leave. Right now. Tell me you don't want me here and I walk out that shutter and never come back to Aisle 5." She opened her mouth. Nothing came out. "Tell me to leave, Eunice Cole." The shutter banged again. A loud metal sound from the front entrance. A voice shouted, panicked, "BOSS! We have a problem! They found the shipment at the docks! It's bad!" Eric's jaw tightened. His hand dropped from her chin. The cold boss was back. He looked at Eunice, deep in her eyes. "Stay here. Don't move from Aisle 5. No matter what you hear. Gunshots, shouting, whatever. You stay here. Lock yourself in." "Yes..." He walked fast toward the entrance, his boots loud. Then stopped at the end of Aisle 5 and looked back, his face torn between two worlds. "And Eunice?" "Yes?" "That answer you didn't give me? You will give it to me tomorrow. In my office. 8 PM. Manhattan. Don't be late. Wear something nice. Not the vest." Then he was gone. The shutter rolled down, locking her inside, alone, in his warehouse, in the dark, with only the sound of his boots fading and trucks and shouting arriving outside. Eunice slid down to the floor, her back against the crates, her heart beating so loud she thought the cameras could hear it. Her cheek was still warm where he touched her. She was in trouble. Serious trouble. And part of her, a scary, secret part she had never known before, didn't want to be saved at all. She wanted to see what would happen tomorrow at 8 PM in Manhattan. She could not stop thinking about him. Her heart raced every time she remembered his gray eyes watching her alone in the dark warehouse tonight.