“Thank you for making the time to meet with us,” he says.
“Of course,” I reply, because I’m here to do a job.
Caterina steps in next, and her smile is polite but professional.
“Ms. Nilsson,” she says, and her tone carries something faintly amused, as if she’s been looking forward to meeting the person holding the keys.
“Ms. Conti,” I say, giving her the courtesy of using her name back. I extend my hand.
Her handshake is crisp and confident. She doesn’t squeeze, but she doesn’t yield. She looks me straight in the eye, and I recognize the sensation instantly: a woman who has been in too many rooms where she had to prove she belonged, and decided she’d rather make people provetheydid.
“I’ve heard you’re thorough,” she says, still smiling.
“I am,” I answer, just as smoothly. “I’ve heard you’re precise.”
Her brow lifts a fraction—approval, maybe, or just interest. “I am.”
Caterina’s gaze flicks, quick as a blade, to my tablet on the table, then back to me. “We brought everything you requested,” she adds. “And if there’s anything you need beyond that, I can have it pulled immediately.”
“Good,” I say, and my voice is steady even as my stomach tries to revolt again. “That will make today easier.”
Caterina shifts slightly, and the last introduction is inevitable.
“Antonio Conti,” Caterina says.
Antonio steps forward like he’s been standing in the wings, waiting for a cue. He’s not looking at me yet, and I use the half-second to fortify my posture. To remind my lungs to keep breathing. To tell my hands not to shake. I extend my hand.
His gaze finally meets mine.
And it’s empty.
No heat. No memory.
“Ms. Nilsson,” he says, voice smooth. Professional. Like he’s never had his mouth on my throat—or anywhere else.
For one brutal second, my body betrays me. Memory flashes—his hand on my skin, his grip, the way those fingers know exactly how to hold and coax and ruin.
I swallow it down.
I keep my face still. I keep my eyes cool. I take his hand like he’s just another man across a conference table.
His palm is warm. Familiar in a way I refuse to think about.
“Mr. Conti,”I say, polite as ice.
His fingers close around mine—firm, controlled, perfectly appropriate. But the contact is a live wire, and I hate him for the jolt it sends through me. I hold his gaze for half a heartbeat longer than necessary, the way I did with Roberto.
If he’s going to pretend, so am I.
Then I release him first. Clean. Smooth.
Like I’ve never met him.
Like I don’t know exactly what that hand can do to me when the lights are low, and the door is shut.
He gives a small, courteous nod, nothing more.
“Shall we?” Roberto says, gesturing toward the table as if this is any other Monday.
