Something is wrong. Terribly wrong.
At the foot of the stairs, I round the corner into the living room?—
And stop cold.
I see him the moment I step into the living room.
A man. Sitting in my mother’s chair.
He sits with one leg crossed over the other, a cup of tea balanced in his hand.
The cut of his suit is too clean for this room; a thin leather strap is around his wrist—an expensive watch. The air around him carries the dry burn of cigar smoke and polished leather, the kind of scent money wears when it can afford not to shout.
He’s out of place among the old vintage furniture that decorates my home. His suit looks like it costs at least half the rent for this house. His short brown hair is slicked back, his face clean-shaven, giving him a youthful glow — but I can still tell he’s years older than me.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Feriama,” my father says in a low tone. He crosses to the loveseat and lowers himself onto it.
I remain standing, unsure of what exactly I’ve just walked into.
Mr. Feriama doesn’t take his gaze off me. His eyes — glacial blue — bore into the depths of my soul, as if he’s trying to strip me down to my very foundation. It’s unnerving, throwing me off for a moment or two.
“Ah,” he says, voice low and smooth. “The infamous Beatrice.Ciao, cara.It’s a pleasure to finally meet you — officially.”
His voice is velvet, but underneath it there’s a tone that makes every instinct in me rise to attention.
I don’t trust him. Not even for a second.
He’s mesmerizing, but in the way a cobra in the grass is mesmerizing.
“You’re in my mother’s chair.” I cross my arms over my chest and stare him down. “I’d appreciate it if you got up and sat elsewhere, Mr. Feriama. She’s in the kitchen, but she’ll be out soon enough.”
The way I say his name isn’t respectful. If anything, it’s mocking.
But I don’t care. The man rubs me the wrong way, and I’ve barely said ten words to him.
His blue eyes stay locked on mine. Then he lets out a low chuckle.
“You’re one hell of a spitfire, aren’t you? I knew there was a reason you caught my eye at the coffee shop that day.” He rubs his chin with his knuckles, still studying me. “Aruto, you didn’t tell me your daughter was such a spitfire.”
His words catch me off guard. “Coffee shop? You mean Sandy’s? The coffee shop I work at?”
Mr. Feriama gives me one curt nod. “You served me an iced Americano and slipped me a biscuit. You asked about my day, then went on with the rest of yours.”
I try to think back over my last few weeks at Sandy’s, but I serve so many people, interact with so many faces, that they all blur together.
“I’m the one who tipped you five hundred dollars.”
“You left a five-hundred dollar tip.” It lands like a key turning.
I remember him, but only vaguely. The interaction couldn’t have lasted more than thirty seconds. I’d been stunned when I saw the bill, stunned again when I realized he’d left before I could thank him. I’d wanted to tell him it was too much. Instead, I’d taken that same five hundred dollars and used it to buy the shoes for my interview.
“Ah, now you remember me.” His lips split into a wicked smile. “It’s lovely to see you again,cara mia.”
He rises, slow and deliberate, like a cobra lifting its head from the grass. His suit is tailored with lethal precision, every line sharpened to fit the part of a menacing CEO with a killer’s mind.
He closes the distance in three long strides. When he’s only an arm’s length away, the scent of his cologne hits me — expensive and sharp, laced with the smoke of cigars.
“You’re even more striking now than you were that overcast day in the coffee shop.” He takes my hand in his, lifts it, and kisses the back of it.
