Chapter Four

Frederico Grey Di Grazia;

The office was dead silent, except for the tap-tap-tap of my pen against the glass desk. I wasn’t trying to make noise—just thinking. The single desk lamp cast long shadows across the papers scattered in front of me. Numbers. Reports. Bank accounts that didn’t sit right.

“These numbers don’t add up,” I said, my voice calm, but cold enough to make anyone sweat. I hated repeating myself, but I had to see if my assistant caught on.

Emilia stood by the door, holding her tablet like a lifeline. Her sharp little suit and neat bun were meant to show confidence, but the way her fingers gripped the edge gave her away.

“Boss,” she started, her voice careful. “The offshore accounts were updated last night. I double-checked them.”

I looked up slowly, meeting her eyes. My stare always had a way of stripping excuses down to the bone. “You double-checked, but here I am, staring at numbers that don’t make sense. Either you missed something, or someone’s playing games. Which is it?”

Her lips parted, but no words came. For a second, I thought she might crumble. Then, she straightened her back. “I’ll go over it again, sir. I’ll find what’s wrong.”

I leaned back in my chair, letting the silence sit heavy between us. “You’ll find it in the next hour. Because if I have to dig through this myself, whoever’s responsible won’t be breathing tomorrow. Are we clear?”

“Crystal clear, sir.” She turned on her heel and hurried out, her shoes clicking against the marble floor like a ticking clock.

Alone again, I stared at the mess of numbers. Someone thought they were smart. Thought they could hide a mistake—or worse, a theft—from me. My jaw tightened.

“Whoever it is,” I muttered, picking up the pen again, “they’ll wish they’d never crossed Frederico Grey Di Grazia.”

I spent hours in my office, buried in stacks of documents. The soft rustle of papers and the occasional scratch of my pen were the only sounds that kept me company. My phone buzzed, the screen lighting up with a notification that screamed for attention.

I glanced at it, unimpressed.

It was a message from my adopted brother. The sight of his name didn’t excite me, but it didn’t surprise me either. We weren’t close. His father, my father’s best friend, had taken me in after my parents’ mysterious deaths. A favor, they’d called it. A debt repaid.

But even after all these years, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I never quite fit in their world. And he never let me forget it.

I picked up the phone, opening the message with a flick of my thumb. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be good.

Just as I was about to open the message, a sharp knock on the door interrupted me.

She stepped inside, balancing a tray. The smell of fresh vegetables hit the air, but it did nothing to calm the storm in me.

Her eyes lifted, meeting mine. That was all it took. She felt it—the simmering anger, the raw hatred I carried for her.

“Your salad, boss,” she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper. She placed the tray down with shaky hands, careful not to spill anything, and turned to leave as quickly as she came.

“Where are you going?” I asked, my voice cutting through the silence like a blade. “Did I say you could leave?”

She froze, shoulders stiff, before turning back slowly.

“I... I was—”

“Careful,” I interrupted, my voice dropping an octave. “If you had the audacity to apologize, I might’ve killed your father on the spot.”

The color drained from her face, and for a moment, the silence between us became deafening. She didn’t move. Neither did I.

“Now,” I said, leaning back in my chair, “sit down. We’re not done here.”

She hesitated, eyes darting to the door, then back to me, her jaw clenched. I could see her struggle with whether to walk out or stay. In the end, she pulled the chair out and sat, the sound of it scraping across the floor cutting through the silence. I'm

I could feel her unease radiating off her. Good. That’s exactly what I wanted.

“Eat,” I ordered, pointing to the salad she’d placed in front of me.

She blinked, confused for a moment, but her eyes narrowed. “What?” she spat.

“Eat,” I repeated, my voice cold, staring her down as I slowly picked up the fork. I could already feel the fire of anger in her eyes, but I wasn’t done yet. Slowly, I brought the fork to my mouth, chewing deliberately, savoring every bite as I watched her squirm.

“How does it taste?” I questioned, dropping my fork.

She didn’t answer, just continued eating slowly, her gaze avoiding mine. Her hands were shaky as she picked at the lettuce, trying not to meet my eyes.

I couldn’t let it slide.

“If I ask you a question, it demands an answer!!” I yelled, my voice sharp and cutting through the silence.

She flinched, the fork dropping to the floor with a clatter. Her eyes widened, but she didn’t move.

“How… Does it taste?” I pressed again, my voice dropping into a dangerous whisper. “Let me guess, healthy, right? Not like some poor, pathetic excuse of a meal from your wretched family. Just a salad. Everything you’ve come to expect now, huh?”

Her breath hitched. She swallowed hard, but I could see the anger bubbling beneath her facade. She was hurt, I could tell by the way her lip trembled. But that’s what I wanted. I wanted her to feel it. To feel everything I had kept buried for so long.

She opened her mouth to say something, but the words caught in her throat. I watched as she bit back her response, her hands clutching the edge of the table, knuckles white.

“Go on,” I prodded, “say something. I dare you.”

Her voice was barely a whisper. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, Frederico. I was wrong. I know that now.”

I couldn’t stop the smirk that pulled at the corner of my lips. She was cracking. I could see it, like the pressure was too much. She’d never expected me to push this far, but I wasn’t going to let her off easy.

“I don’t want your damn apology,” I muttered, my eyes never leaving hers. “It means nothing now.”

Her face flushed, but the tears that welled up were still there, lingering. She wiped at her eyes quickly, but they just kept coming. It wasn’t the apology I wanted. It was her weakness. Her vulnerability.

“Can you stop...?” she mumbled, tears streaming down her face, her voice barely a whisper. “It’s been ten years already... please, just stop!”

I didn’t move. The words stung more than I wanted to admit, but I wasn’t going to let her see that.

“And what if I say no?” I asked coldly, my voice dripping with contempt. I slowly rose from my seat, the anger simmering in my veins as I walked towards her. Every step felt like a weight on my chest.

She trembled, her back pressed against the table, helpless, yet still defiant in her own broken way.

I watched her fall apart, and something inside me twisted. Her tears were pathetic, but they still did something to me. Irritated me. Pushed me further.

Her breath hitched, and I couldn’t stand the sound of it. The soft sobs, the helplessness—it drove me mad. Every inch of her presence grated on me. It wasn’t just the years lost; it was the years I’d wasted hating her, the years she’d torn from me.

“Shut the fuck up!!” I growled, my hands gripping hers, pulling her up with a force that made her gasp. Her body collided with mine, her chest heaving as she struggled to breathe, but I didn’t let go.

My gaze burned into hers, cold and unforgiving, yet something about the way her eyes met mine—vulnerable, desperate, and still holding that spark of defiance—had my blood boiling.

“I told you, didn’t I?” I spat, leaning in close enough that she could feel the heat of my breath. “Ten years... you think ten years changes anything? You think I’ll just let it go?”

Her lips trembled as she bit back the words, but I could see the fight fading. Good. She didn’t deserve to fight back. Not yet. Not when I was still so damn angry.