He already has one of the crystal tumblers from the silver tray in hand.
I decline. “A little early for me.”
His smile shifts. Not polite. Not charming. He makes a face like something sour just crossed his tongue—likeme.
He pours himself a generous glass and throws it back like water, his eyes never leaving mine. Cold. Calculating. No pretense of civility between us anymore.
He sets the glass down with a softclink.The sound of tension. Of lines being drawn.
I glance at my watch.
“I’ve always known you had something up your sleeve,” Dante says, voice low, casual. “I have to give you credit, though. I still don’t know what it is.”
His gaze is unreadable. But I see the twitch in his jaw. The awareness.
This is the match I’ve been preparing for.
It was always going to come down to me and Dante.
He’s lingered around Grant like a parasite from the beginning. A leech feeding off the Harrow legacy, riding on charm and smirks and backroom deals. But I’ve seen through him since day one.
“Looks like we’ve both been playing the same game,” I say coolly. “Though I have a pretty good idea of what you intend to get out of all this.”
His brow lifts, ever so slightly. “And what’s that?”
I motion around the room. Around the firm.
“All this, of course.Marchesi and Harrowstripped down to just theMarchesiname on the building. You, standing beside Grant like some conquering hero. And him? Too blind to see the knife you’re waiting to drive into his back.”
Dante’s smile turns slow. Dangerous. “Lacks creativity,” he says. “But not too far off.”
I step closer. One heel clicks. Then another. I hold his gaze like a challenge.
“Well,” I say, tilting my head. “We both know neither of us is going to be the first to back down. So how about a wager?”
His interest flickers, but he masks it well. “And here I thought you were a walking stick-up-the-ass.”
I laugh. It’s sharp. Humorless.
I reach for the bottle, pouring two fingers of whiskey into a second glass.
He watches me, intrigued now, his hand already moving to refill his own.
I raise my glass slightly. “To the best player.”
He lifts his own in response. “May the best man win.”
“Or woman,” I correct, voice soft but steel beneath it.
He drinks.
I don’t.
I lift the glass to my lips, hover, and then... set it down untouched.
His eyes track the motion.
A flicker. A subtle shift in his expression. The swallow a little slower this time.
