I laugh once, sharp and humorless, the sound scraping my throat. “And yet here we are.”
Another pause.
“Caterina,” he says, and the words hit like a tired refrain, like he’s been saying them to himself all weekend. “She did this. She ambushed me, too.”
My jaw tightens. My hand curls around the handle of my bag until it digs into my palm.
“I’m supposed to uh…” He clears his throat.
Finally, I turn around.
“What?” I say bitterly. “Charm me? Try to get me on your side? Convince me to approve the acquisition? Haven’t youdone enough of that?”
His face tightens, and for the first time all morning, the polish cracks—just enough to show something raw underneath it.
“No,” he says, frustrated.
I lift my brows. “No? What, there’s more? What was next?” I throw my arms out and let them fall to my sides helplessly. “Date me? Marry me? Have babies with me? Would that get you the signature you want?”
The words taste like acid the moment they leave my mouth, but I don’t take them back. I can’t. Not when my chest is tight, and my stomach is churning, and he’s standing there looking at me like I’m a mess he doesn’t know how to clean up.
His eyes flare—anger, yes, but something else too. Something that looks like it hurts.
“Stop,” he says, sharply. “Don’t—”
“Don’t what?” I cut in, my voice rising. “Don’t say it out loud? Don’t make it ugly? Because itisugly, Antonio.”
“Elsa, you have to listen to me.” He takes a step forward. “You have to believe me when I say I didn’t know. You want to call it a coincidence, then call it one. But I did not know.”
Before I can turn away, he takes me by the arms and holds me firmly in place.
“The truth,” he says, “is that you walked into that room on Friday night, and everything inside me reacted. It was like you reached inside me and grabbed something and I haven’t been able to catch my breath since.”
His grip is firm, but it’s not trapping, just keeping me from bolting. I can feel the heat of his hands through my sleeves, and it makes my skin prickle with betrayal all over again.
“I tried to be normal about it,” he says, jaw tight, eyes locked on mine. “I tried to do the thing I always do—smile, flirt, charm, move on. But…”
His hands flex on my arms.
“The more time I spent with you, the stronger the hold you had.”
His voice drops on the last word, as if it costs him something to say it. Like he hates the vulnerability as much as I do.
“The only time Northstar was on my mind after I saw you that night,” he says, and there’s a desperate insistence, “was ‘thank God Olivia took those Northstar assholes on a tour and set me free.’ They told me you weren’t even coming, and they didn’t use your first name. Nilsson. That’s all I knew. And let me tell you,dolcezza, you werenotwhat I was picturing.”
I want to believe him. I do. It’s not just because my whole body wants me to, but because of the look on his face right now. And the look on his face on Saturday when I accused him. The look of genuine shock and disbelief, the anger and bitterness.
It all felt so real.
And if this were anyone else, I would believe them because that would be some damn good acting. But I’ve heard rumors about the Contis.
Rumors that tell me he might very well be able to pull off such damn good acting.
And rumors that tell me sleeping with someone to make a deal isn’t unheard of for them.
“Can you be honest with me?” I whisper.
“I am,” he says earnestly. “More honest than I’ve ever been with anyone.”
