Riccardo's office is exactly what I'd expect—dark wood paneling, leather-bound books lining built-in shelves, a massive desk positioned to face the door. Two leather wingback chairs sit across from it, and a decanter of amber liquid waits on a silver tray.
He closes the door behind us with a soft click. The room smells of leather, whiskey, and subtle cigar smoke—the scent of power and tradition.
"Scotch?" he offers, already reaching for the decanter.
"Please."
He pours two glasses and hands one to me before settling into his chair. I take the seat across from him, feeling the weight of generations of similar conversations between our families.
"So," he begins, swirling the liquid in his glass, "this casino venture. The numbers look promising."
I nod, taking a sip of the scotch—smoky with a hint of caramel. "A legitimate front with significant profit potential."
"Equal investment, equal return," Riccardo says thoughtfully. "But what about management?"
"We each appoint a representative," I reply. "Joint decisions, mutual oversight."
Riccardo leans back, studying me over the rim of his glass. "And security?"
"Split responsibility."
A smile tugs at his lips. "Your father would be proud of how you handle business, Damiano. Direct, fair, but always with an eye to your family's advantage."
I incline my head slightly, accepting the compliment. "As would Santo be of you."
Riccardo contemplates his scotch, the amber liquid catching the warm light from his desk lamp. "I'll need some time to think on this proposal," he says finally. "To discuss with my brothers and make sure we're all aligned."
I nod, unsurprised. Riccardo never makes snap decisions—one of the traits that's kept the Sartori family thriving for generations. "Of course."
"I'll review the numbers again with my team. Run through the projections once more." His finger traces the edge of his glass. "You'll have my answer soon—within the week."
"That's all I ask," I reply.
He stands, signaling our business discussion has concluded. "In the meantime, enjoy Chicago."
I follow Ava and Vittoria through the French doors leading out from the dining room, grateful for the cool evening air that washes over my heated skin. The garden sprawls before us, illuminated by strings of fairy lights woven through trellises and small solar lamps marking the stone pathways.
"Finally," Vittoria breathes, kicking off her heels and leaving them by the door. "Those shoes were killing me."
Ava laughs, her voice melodic in the quiet night. "You could just wear flats like I suggested."
"And look like a child next to you two glamazons? I think not." Vittoria turns to me with a conspiratorial smile. "I'm already the baby of the family. I refuse to look the part."
There's something refreshing about Vittoria's candor. Unlike the carefully measured words at dinner, out here in the garden, away from the men's watchful eyes, a different atmosphere settles between us.
Ava leads us down a winding path. "Riccardo always gives the same tour—office, wine cellar, humidor—but this," she gestures broadly to the garden around us, "this is the heart of our home."
Roses, hydrangeas, and other flowers I can't name perfume the air. The garden is designed in a style that reminds me of Italian villas I visited during my time in Florence—structured but with a deliberate wildness that feels more authentic than the manicured precision of Byron's gardens.
"I designed it myself," Ava says, pride evident in her voice. "Riccardo wanted to hire a professional, but I insisted."
"It's beautiful," I say, meaning it. "There's something so... alive about it."
"Unlike sterile business dealings?" Vittoria suggests with a smirk.
I can't help but laugh. "I wouldn't know. I'm not exactly invited to those conversations."
"None of us are," Ava says, guiding us toward a small seating area surrounded by lavender. "Not officially,anyway."
