4

Josephine

“Anyone but him.”

The words ricochet through my skull like bullets in an echo chamber, and I’m pretty sure I’ve entered some kind of cosmic joke where the universe specifically designs scenarios to fuck with my mental health.

I burst through the doors of Boardroom A like I’m storming the beaches of Normandy, except instead of liberating France, I’m about to have my soul crushed by Italian leather loafers and family dysfunction. My heels are practically drilling holes in the marble—click, click, click—a staccato rhythm that sounds suspiciously like my sanity snapping in real time.

The floor-to-ceiling windows are doing that thing where they flood everything with golden hour light, probably because even the architecture is dramatic in this goddamn building. But all I can focus on is the Category 5 hurricane brewing in my chest cavity.

Alexander Madrigal.

Of all the spectacular disasters I could be managing on this fine Thursday morning—insider trading, tax evasion, accidentally funding a cartel—it had to be him. The one person on this planet who can turn me from a competent professional into a walking hormone with commitment issues.

I haven’t laid eyes on him since that night—you know, the one that exists in some parallel universe where good decisions go to die. And now the universe expects me to clean up his mess? To be in the same room as him without spontaneously combusting?

How the fuck am I supposed to pull that off?

I plant myself at the far end of the boardroom table, arms crossed so tight I’m probably cutting off circulation to my extremities. My pulse is doing this thing where it sounds like a techno rave in my eardrums, which is super helpful for maintaining professional composure.

Then he walks in.

Late, obviously. Because punctuality is apparently for peasants and people who don’t look like they stepped out of a Calvin Klein ad directed by the devil himself.

He’s wearing this navy suit that was clearly tailored by angels with questionable morals, and that smirk—that fucking smirk—that used to make my knees forget how to function. Now it just makes me want to launch my MacBook at his stupidly perfect face and watch it explode in a shower of corporate revenge.

He slides into the seat directly across from me like he’s claiming territory, like we don’t have enough history between us to fill a N*****x limited series. Complete with explicit content warnings.

Sweet Jesus, why does he have to look better now?

His jaw could probably cut diamonds, and his shoulders have expanded to roughly the width of a small aircraft carrier. The suit jacket is doing things to his chest that should be illegal in at least forty-seven states, and don’t even get me started on what’s happening below the belt because I’m a professional and professionals don’t mentally undress their clients’ brothers during crisis management meetings.

Except I totally am.

He starts rolling up his sleeves—slow, deliberate, like he’s performing surgery on my self-control—revealing forearms that belong in a museum dedicated to why women make terrible life choices. Every movement sends electric shocks straight to places that have no business being involved in corporate strategy.

I hate that I notice. Hate that my body reacts like it’s been programmed by some sadistic scientist to self-destruct around this particular man.

But my traitorous nervous system remembers everything about that night. His hands mapping territories they had no business exploring. The way he growled my name like a prayer and a curse. How I temporarily lost my mind and decided hate-fucking was a totally reasonable conflict resolution strategy.

I force my eyeballs to focus on literally anything else in this room.

Valesquez looks like he’s been carved from marble and rage, arms folded, jaw clenched so tight I’m worried about his dental work. He’s radiating the kind of controlled fury that makes expensive suits look like armor.

Enzo Madrigal commands the head of the table like some kind of corporate emperor. His salt-and-pepper hair is slicked back with military precision, and his charcoal suit probably costs more than most people’s cars. The man looks like he built an empire with his bare hands and zero tolerance for human weakness. His eyes are the kind of cold that makes polar ice caps seem tropical.

My father stands opposite him, studying his notes like this is just another delightful family gathering instead of a potential bloodbath. Classic James Henderson—emotional availability of a brick wall, strategic mind of a chess grandmaster.

Then there’s Dimitri, my brother, already looking like he wants to dig a hole in the conference table and live there permanently. Poor kid’s been caught between my family’s dysfunction and the Madrigal empire his entire adult life.

But Alexander? That bastard is perfectly comfortable. Relaxed. Like he’s lounging at a country club instead of sitting in the eye of a shitstorm that could literally get him killed.

Enzo’s voice slices through the tension like a blade through silk. “The situation has deteriorated beyond our initial assessment.”

Everyone freezes. Even the air conditioning seems to hold its breath.

“The Bratva are aware of the… connection. While they haven’t responded with violence yet, that’s purely due to John’s intervention.”

My eyes dart to my father, who doesn’t even blink. Of course. Dad’s always been a man with more secrets than a CIA operative and twice as many morally questionable contacts.

Dimitri shifts forward, and I can see the stress lines around his eyes. “He’s worked with them before. PR cleanups, media suppression, strategic information acquisition. He has leverage. Insurance policies. For now, they’re treating this as a manageable situation rather than a declaration of war. They owe him favors, or at least they’re cautious about what he might know.”

His gaze finds mine across the table, and I see the gravity of what we’re dealing with reflected in his expression.

“But if the rumors about Alexander and Orlando’s daughter go public—if rival organizations catch wind of this—the Bratva will have no choice but to respond decisively.”

Valesquez nods grimly. “They cannot afford to appear weak.”

“Exactly,” Enzo says, his voice carrying decades of understanding dangerous men and their dangerous games. “In their world, letting this slide would signal vulnerability to every enemy, every competitor, every ambitious underling. It would be an invitation for challenges they cannot ignore.”

My mouth feels like I’ve been chewing sawdust for breakfast.

Enzo’s eyes are glacier-cold as he continues. “They won’t just target Alexander for punishment. They’ll make an example. A statement that maintains their reputation and keeps their enemies appropriately terrified.”

This is so much worse than a simple scandal.

This is a spark that could ignite a war. Because when the mafia declares open season, there are no rules, no negotiations, no mercy. If the Bratva retaliates, the Madrigal name becomes toxic. The merger dies a spectacular death. Investors flee like their portfolios are on fire. But if the Madrigals try to protect Alexander too obviously, the Bratva’s response will be even more brutal.

My father finally speaks, his voice carrying that infuriating calm that suggests he’s already ten moves ahead of everyone else. “Which is precisely why we must control the narrative immediately. Neutralize the threat before it becomes public. Before it becomes lethal.”

Alexander’s eyes lock onto mine with an intensity that makes my skin feel like it’s on fire. I refuse to look back because looking back leads to remembering, and remembering leads to poor decision-making.

Enzo turns his piercing attention to me, and my spine automatically straightens like I’m facing a firing squad.

“Josephine will manage the crisis.”

The words hit like a physical blow.

Silence swallows the room whole. Even Alexander goes completely still.

My father doesn’t meet my eyes. Dimitri looks like he wants to object but values his life too much. Valesquez exhales through his nose like he’s barely containing his thoughts about this particular assignment.