Page 4 of Diego

I nearly choke on the swallow I just took. “No.”

“You didn’t even think about it.”

“I don’t need to.”

“There’s plenty of room.”

“There is a six-month pregnant woman in your house.”

“My wife likes you.”

“Of course she does,” I say arrogantly. “What's not to like? That doesn't change my stance.”

His lips curve. “She is very pleasant these days.”

I laugh. “The fact that you have to say that. Regardless, I am not moving into your house while you two are newly married and expecting a baby. I have some standards.”

“That would imply there are standards involved in moving in with the boys.”

“Those are different standards.”

“Lower ones?”

“Much lower.”

He laughs again, and I push away from the table to stand, straightening the cuffs of my shirt as I do. The conference room sits along the east side of Conti Enterprises’ executive floor, all glass and dark wood. Beyond the windows, Chicago stretches out below us while traffic moves through the busy streets.

All four of us occupy offices on this floor. There are times when the legitimate side of our business feels almost uncomplicated.

Numbers, contracts, acquisitions, property, development—problems that can usually be handled with signatures, negotiations, and enough money.

Then there are mornings like this when even the simplest task irritates me.

“What time is your meeting?” Lorenzo asks, as if he can read my mind.

I glance at my watch. “Nine.”

“And after that?”

“The Meridian Group.”

His brows lift slightly. “Already?”

“We just acquired them, and I suddenly need somewhere to live. It seems efficient.”

The acquisition is recent enough that the integration is still underway, but Meridian is an established high-end real estate company, and right now that matters to me far more than any report sitting on my desk.

Whatever else is happening with the company, they have brokers, listings, and access to properties. I have money and a housing problem. The arrangement should be straightforward.

Lorenzo nods. “They’ll be bending over backward to cater to the new owners.”

“As they should.”

“You’re going to make some poor broker rearrange their entire day for you.”

“Unashamedly,” I say. “Let's see what they're made of.” I pick up my phone and slide it into my jacket pocket.

Lorenzo stands and buttons his jacket, apparently deciding he has spent enough of his morning enjoying my housing problem. When he reaches the door, he pauses and looks back at me. “Diego.”