“Next,” Satan said. “I’m not in the mood for your self-righteousness.”

Nate took a deep, calming breath. “I’ve finished compiling the report you requested,” he said, handing his boss the report he’d barely managed to finish before Ferrara’s arrival.

The man opened it and skimmed it with his gaze.

Nate held his breath.

“It’s inaccurate and incomplete,” said Satan at last in his flat, dismissive voice. “You didn’t consider the increased microtransactions revenue we’ll get from putting the game on Gamepass. You didn’t take into account the extra exposure and word of mouth sales that would offset the loss of Day One revenue. Have the revised version of the report on my desk by ten o’clock.” He turned and headed to his office.

“It’s already nine, and you gave me two other tasks already.” Nate scowled at his back, but at this point he wasn’t even surprised. He was used to it. He was used to his boss’s horribleness. To his ridiculous standards and demands. He’d had no choice but to get used to it.

For the past four months, Nate’s life had been a living hell. His life consisted of his work and his boss. He hadn’t seen his mom in months, which totally wasn’t normal for him.

Every day, he arrived at the office several hours earlier than he should have, because his workload was so crazy Nate couldn’t hope to finish it during work hours. Then, he had to have Ferrara’s breakfast ready by Ferrara’s arrival. Nate was now an expert at making Cappuccino—because it was the only type of coffee that existed, as far as his dick of a boss was concerned. After that, Nate was expected to write down and then perform a hundred different tasks, running up and down the building fifty times a day, typing up ridiculously long documents in a ridiculously short time, and traveling between the Caldwell Group subsidiaries and Rutledge Enterprises like a madman. He rarely returned home before eight in the evening, mentally and physically worn out.

Nate was pretty sure it was workplace abuse, except it wasn’t like Ferrara had ever forced overtime on him: Nate did everything willingly. Yep, that was right: he did it willingly. Call him insane, but he would be damned if he proved the asshole correct and crumbled under the pressure. He was going to be the best damn assistant Ferrara had ever had—or die trying. Nate was pretty sure everyone in the company thought him insane. He was also pretty sure everyone was right.

And the worst part was, he never got even the smallest hint of praise when he managed to successfully perform the most impossible tasks. Of course not. Praise wasn’t a word in Raffaele Ferrara’s vocabulary.

Not that he wanted Ferrara’s praise or something. Of course not. Nate hated him. God, did he hate him. He hated him with everything he was. He hated him to the point that he sometimes literally shook with it, wanting an outlet for that hatred, wanting to dig his fingers into those cold, arrogant black eyes and make him hurt.

Nate had never considered himself a violent person. But he’d been forced to revise that opinion ever since he’d started working for Raffaele Ferrara, because he very vividly and very often imagined wrapping his hands around Ferrara’s muscular neck and squeezing—

The intercom came to life. “My office, Nate,” Satan said.

Nate glared at the screen of his computer before marching into the office.

“Is the report ready?” Ferrara said, without looking at him.

Nate ground his teeth. “It has been twenty minutes, sir,” he said in the most pleasant voice he could manage. It wasn’t very pleasant. “The report is over five thousand words long.”

The demon fixed his eyes on him. “And?”

“The average typing speed of a human is forty words a minute. I can type at seventy words per minute, but it would still take me over seventy minutes to type the report—and that’s without taking into account the corrections I’ll have to make. Having it ready after twenty minutes is simply not humanly possible. Sir.”

Ferrara hummed, eyeing him like one would eye a lab rat. At times like this, Nate was certain the bastard gave him impossible tasks on purpose, waiting for Nate to explode and say he was giving up. Nate was fucking determined to deny him the satisfaction.

“Fine,” Satan said. “Have Brenda finish it up. I have another task for you. Go buy me condoms.”

Nate scowled. “I bought you some last week! You can’t seriously be out of them already.”

Yep, that was his life now. Had he mentioned that buying condoms for his boss was among his countless duties? Because it was. In the past four months, he’d actually bought twenty times more condoms for Ferrara than he had for himself—which was kind of sad and pathetic, but it wasn’t like Nate had time for a personal life now—or any kind of life. He hadn’t been on a date since he started working for Ferrara, and he wasn’t really one for one-night stands. Call him old-fashioned, but he liked to get to know the girl before having sex with her.

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