The Shark’s Sunday Best

Sion didn’t hesitate. While the board members whispered and Arthur Sterling smirked, Sion reached over and plucked the phone from Lilia’s trembling hand.

Lilia held her breath, expecting him to hang up or, worse, bark an order at the woman who once chased a tax collector away with a wooden spoon. Instead, Sion adjusted the camera angle, smoothed his expression into something uncharacteristically warm, and leaned into the frame.

"Mrs. Moretti, I presume?" Sion’s voice was like velvet—deep, respectful, and utterly convincing. "I’m Sion Wagner. I apologize for the mustard. It was a... very enthusiastic greeting."

The tiny woman on the screen squinted, her eyes darting from Sion’s perfectly groomed hair to his expensive silk tie. "You are the shark? The one who buys the buildings and makes the people cry?"

"I prefer 'investor,' but I’ve been called worse," Sion said, casting a pointed look at Arthur Sterling. "And I promise you, the only one crying today is me, because I’ve kept your granddaughter away from her work for too long. I’m quite taken with her, as I’m sure you can understand."

Nonna went silent for a heartbeat, her gaze softening as she took in the way Sion’s hand was resting protectively near Lilia’s. "You look like you need a home-cooked meal, Mr. Shark. You are too thin. And my Lilia... she looks like she is wearing a dress that costs more than my house. Why is this?"

"Because she deserves it," Sion said. The words came out a little too quickly, a little too sincerely. He cleared his throat. "We’ll come to Sunday dinner, Mrs. Moretti. I’ll bring the wine. You bring the carbohydrate education."

"Sunday at six! Don't be late or I give your portion to the cat!" Nonna barked, then blew a kiss and hung up.

The silence that followed in the boardroom was different. It wasn't judgmental; it was fascinated. Sion handed the phone back to Lilia, his fingers brushing hers. For a moment, they forgot the twenty executives watching them.

"Well," Arthur Sterling said, standing up and buttoning his blazer. "A man who can negotiate with a grandmother like that can certainly handle a merger. The board will postpone the vote on your leadership, Sion. For now."

As the room cleared, Lilia slumped into her chair, her heart finally slowing down. "You just committed to Sunday dinner. You do realize my grandmother’s 'wine' is actually homemade moonshine kept in a plastic jug, right?"

Sion didn't look annoyed. He looked... exhilarated. He loosened his tie, the first sign of disarray since the mustard incident. "I’ve survived hostile takeovers in three different time zones, Lilia. I think I can survive a Sunday dinner in Queens."

"It’s not just dinner, Sion," Lilia said, looking down at the massive diamond on her finger. "You told her you were 'taken' with me. You told the board I was the 'heart.' How much of this is the script, and how much of this is you just trying to win?"

Sion walked around the table, stopping just inches from her. The office was quiet now, the golden hour light hitting the emerald silk of her dress. He reached out, not to tuck a hair behind her ear this time, but to tilt her chin up to meet his gaze.

"I always play to win, Lilia," he whispered. "But sometimes, the prize changes in the middle of the game."

His phone chimed—a sharp, professional ping. He glanced at it and his face went cold. "It’s Marcus. The press found your diner. There’s a crowd, and someone from the rival firm is already there asking your staff about our 'timeline.'"

Lilia stood up, the panic returning. "If they talk to Brenda, it's over. She can't keep a secret to save her life. She’ll tell them we met this morning over a side of hash browns!"