4

Stefano's Perspective:

"Stefano?"

I carefully placed my glass of whisky on the illuminated crystal counter and released a sigh, pivoting around to confront the individual intending to test my patience tonight.

"I thought it was you," he chuckled, moving to stand beside me.

"And you are...?"

"I'm a bit offended you've forgotten," he retorted playfully. "Julius Smith", he introduced, extending a hand for me to shake.

"Stefano Castro", I replied, giving his hand a firm shake.

"We met last year when I worked with your father."

I paused, attempting to recollect. "Smith & Co."

He nodded with a small smile.

I don't remember. Not at all. But if his last name is Smith, chances are the company is something along those lines.

"Last time, I was hoping I could get you to meet my daughter, but you left for Romania awfully soon."

"Duty calls, Mr Smith," I responded dryly, surveying the room and taking a sip from my drink.

"You prioritise that often, I see."

"I do, indeed." I glanced at him before returning my focus to observing the room. "Can I help you, Mr Smith... again?"

"It's a rather small task; you could do it in seconds," he mused. "I just need to get some information on someone, that's all."

"Information from me is expensive, Mr Smith."

"I'm well aware. Where does your negotiation begin?"

I let out a dry chuckle and looked at him. "Shouldn't I be asking you that?"

"Ten."

"Million?" I mused.

"Twenty," he shrugged.

I observed him, lifting a hand to scratch my brow using my thumb as I restrained a laugh. "Desperate, aren't we? Mr Deluca is in dire need of my help, and he's only giving me fifteen."

"Diego Deluca?" He scrunched up his face, puzzled. "What does he need?"

I slid my glass back to the bartender, signalling for a refill. "Confidentiality keeps me alive, Mr Smith. Ten, and we have a deal."

He extended his hand once more.

I ignored it. "I don't make deals unless they're on paper. I'll send you the contract."

He nodded in understanding and left.

"Sir." I glanced at the bartender as he gestured to the glass. I nodded once and caught the glass as it slid over the counter to me.

"A whisky, please. Neat."

My gaze wandered to the other end of the counter where her voice emanated.

"You're a whisky girl, Miss?" the bartender mused, pouring her a glass and sliding it to her.

"Oh, absolutely," she laughed humourlessly, downing the entire thing before setting the glass down on the counter, wincing at the bitter punch on her tongue. Sighing loudly, she rested her elbows on the counter and leaned forward, gesturing for the bartender to come closer. "What drink would you recommend?"

"Would you like another one?" he asked, lifting a brow.

She hummed, nodding slowly, batting her eyes at him.

"I can make a neat margarita."

"Too sweet."

"Vodka?"

"Too strong."

"Tequila?"

She smiled, "Too risky."

"Tequila it is," he chuckled.

"How about that flask?" she asked, glancing at the gold flask sitting behind him.

"That's absinthe, Miss. It's dangerously strong."

"Perfect."

He hesitantly handed her the flask.

"Thanks," she grinned, pushing the glass of her whisky into his hands. "See you around."

"Without a name?" he asked as she turned to leave.

I watched, amused, as she rolled her eyes in annoyance before turning back around. "Camiela."

He paused, letting out a strained breath. "Rodriguez?"

She nodded casually before tilting her head to one side. "Care to dare?"

He shook his head hesitantly.

Laughing, she held up the flask. "Thanks again."

"Any time, ma'am," he spluttered.

Ma'am... really?

She faltered in her steps, pausing for a brief moment. It seemed like she was contemplating whether to turn around and say something to me, but without a word or any obvious glance, she continued walking away.

I don't know if I should appreciate that she remembers me or disappear because she does. 

Camiela was trouble without realising it, and if she wasn't following trouble, it was most definitely following her. Turning around, my eyes trailed behind her around the room, watching as she subtly kept her flask behind her clutch and roamed around, talking to people occasionally as she slowly made her way towards the exit. On her way out, she nearly crashed into a waiter and patted his arm, mumbling an apology before slipping past the main doors and out of the room. 

The waiter, on the other hand, was too distracted staring where she walked and bumped right into someone else, sending all the champagne glasses on his tray tumbling and shattering. 

See, trouble. 

"Stefano!" I spotted Tara waving me over hurriedly. 

Suppressing a sigh, I downed whatever was left of my drink and made my way over to her. 

"I've been searching everywhere for you," she laughed, slipping an arm around me and patting my back. 

"Tara", I greeted, putting an arm around her shoulders. "Ladies", I said, turning to her friends. 

"Stefano, it's been a while since we saw you," one of the women chuckled. 

"Yes, it has..." 

"Georgia", Tara whispered. 

"Georgia", I finished with a nod. 

"We always hear about you from Tara; let us ask you tonight. How does Romania treat you?" someone else asked. 

"Better than New York." That was always my answer. I ignored Tara's slap on my back and cleared my throat, pulling my arm to my side. "If you'll excuse me," I said, backing away and walking past my father, going straight back towards the bar, but when I saw a group of my father's friends sitting there, talking and glancing pointedly at me, I took a detour and headed straight to the exit, walking out of the hall and letting out a sigh as I reached the lobby. 

All I had to do was kill a little more time before I could leave, so I thought I'd find someplace else. Getting on the elevator, I pressed the button to the top floor, and once I made it up there, I found the sign to the staircase and climbed up the short flight of stairs, forcing the door open despite the stiffness and the creak that echoed in the empty stairwell. 

I cringed at the screech, closing it behind me, and spun around, slowing in my steps as I saw her standing by the railing. 

Fate certainly has a way of working against me. 

She turned around with annoyance written all over her and let out a groan when she saw me. "It's you." 

I resisted a scoff and made my way over, standing beside her. "Miss me?" I asked, glancing at the flask in her hand. 

She let out a sigh and took another sip. "I saw you once today in months; of course, I missed you," she snickered sarcastically without looking at me. 

I rolled my eyes and faced ahead, bringing a lighter out of my pocket, my thumb tracing the matte black polish before I flicked it open and lit the flame, then closed it and repeated that a few times. 

"Stop it," she warned through gritted teeth. "It's annoying." 

Glancing at her, I continued even slower for emphasis, each click making her jaw tick. 

She turned to grab it, but I was quick enough to snap it shut and hold it out of her reach as she stepped closer to me, glaring in annoyance. 

"Hello, Ms Rodriguez," I said, staring down at her. 

"Stefano," she greeted back reluctantly, taking a step back and pulling a strand of hair away from her face as it blew in the wind up here. "How was Romania?" she mumbled after a momentary silence. 

"Better than New York," I answered, and her little dry laugh told me she expected it. "How was New York?" I questioned. 

"Shitshow."

I bit back a reply and glanced at her attire, taking in the creamy-champagne white satin slip dress and the way it only started at her tailbone, leaving her back exposed. 

"It's been a while since I last spoke to you," she said. 

"Because we have no reason to speak, Iubit," I exhaled, taking the flask out of her hands and securing the lid back on, slipping it into the inner pocket of the black suit I wore along with a black button-up and matching slacks. 

"That was getting me through the night," she ground out. 

"Get through the night on your own. Absinthe is too strong for anyone." 

Rolling her eyes, she turned around, glancing at the door with her gaze getting caught on something. 

I looked over my shoulder, spotting the painting that was discarded. 

"Why would anyone throw that?" she scoffed softly under her breath. 

I took a closer look, trying to read the distorted face of the man hidden behind a cloud of smoke, painted in a crisp tux. "Because the painting is ugly," I stated. 

She snickered, "Of course, you'd say that." The painting's not ugly; it's... mysterious. Anyone could have painted it; it could be anyone in that painting." She chuckled softly, "It could be you." 

I glanced at her. "Careful, Camiela. I don't appreciate hateful comments." 

"Please," she responded, rolling her eyes before sighing, "I'd better get going instead of wasting my time with you. Goodbye, Stefano." 

I nodded once in response. "Goodnight, Feisty."

She glowered at me over her shoulder as she walked away and yanked the door open, rushing downstairs and escaping me.