The phone buzzes again, this time with a calendar alert: a meeting I’d already forgotten about.
Business. The one thing I can still manage without letting it bleed.
I get up, straighten my tie, and leave before I can think myself into something I’ll regret.
By the timeI reach the meeting room, the rain’s stopped. The sun’s trying to break through the clouds, the light cutting clean lines across the polished floor.
The clients are already there: two men I’ve worked with before, Paolo Ricci and his partner, Dima Rinaldi. Both talk too much, drink too much, and think money makes them untouchable.
I sit at the head of the table. “You’re early.”
“Always a good sign,” Ricci says with that fake grin people wear when they’re about to try something stupid. “Means we’re eager.”
I don’t return it. “Then let’s make this fast.”
We start talking numbers. Figures. Percentages.
It’s supposed to be simple. I’ve done this a thousand times: sit, negotiate, agree, move on. But halfway through Ricci’s pitch, I realize I haven’t heard a single word he’s said.
All I can hear is her voice. All I can see is the look on her face when she told me I was a coward.
She wasn’t wrong.
I blink and focus. “Your numbers are off.”
Ricci chuckles. “No, they’re not.”
“They are.” My voice stays even, but there’s an edge to it I don’t bother hiding. “You’re lowballing me.”
“It’s called negotiation, Esposito.”
“It’s called wasting my time.”
The room shifts—a small ripple of tension.
Rinaldi clears his throat. “We’re all friends here.”
“No, we’re not,” I say. “We’re businessmen. Don’t mistake one for the other.”
Ricci leans back in his chair, smug. “You never change. Always about putting yourself first.”
I meet his gaze. “That’s what makes me a businessman.”
“Or maybe it makes you a shark.” He smirks, the kind of smile that makes me want to break something. “But even sharks need pretty distractions. Word gets around, Nicolo. Heard you’ve been keeping company.”
My jaw tightens. “Careful.”
He raises a brow, mock innocence all over his face. “What? Just saying, everyone needs a hobby.”
The sound that leaves me isn’t a laugh. “You have two seconds to take that back.”
“Oh, come on,” he says. “Don’t tell me she’s gotten under your skin.”
The glass in my hand hits the table harder than I mean it to. He flinches.
Good.
I stand. “We’re done here.”
