Chapter 1

Marcelo’s POV

I stride into the hotel lobby like I own the place—chin up, shoulders back, game face on. It’s all bullshit. Inside, my stomach churns like I swallowed a blender. My father threw me to the wolves—specifically, to Vincenzo fucking Casano—and expects me to somehow come out with my skin intact. Dad’s brilliant idea of helping me “get over that boy” who stomped on my heart. Because nothing cures heartbreak like being fed to your family’s biggest business rival.

The marble floors gleam under my shoes as I head for the reception desk, feeling like everyone’s watching. A woman in a designer dress walks by, does a double-take, and offers a smile. A businessman nearby gives me the same look, less subtle.

Yeah, I know I look good. Pretty. That’s what Roberto called me. “You’re so fucking pretty, Marcelo. That’s why everyone wants you.” Right before I caught him with someone else. Apparently, being pretty wasn’t enough to keep him faithful.

The hollow ache in my chest that’s been my constant companion since finding Roberto balls-deep in his ex flares up again. Perfect timing. Nothing like fresh trauma to boost my confidence before meeting the man my father describes as “a shark who smells weakness like blood in the water.” Maybe my looks will help me today. God knows I need every advantage.

I smooth my hair, which is already fighting to return to its usual tousled state, and adjust my grip on my briefcase before checking my watch. Ten minutes early. Dad would be proud, if he were capable of that emotion toward me.

The woman behind the reception desk gives me a professional smile.

“Good afternoon,” I say, forcing confidence into my voice. “Marcelo Sanchez. I have a meeting with Vincenzo Casano.”

Her smile doesn’t slip, but something in her eyes changes. “One moment, Mr. Sanchez.” Her fingers fly over the keyboard, and she lifts a phone, turning away as she speaks in hushed tones.

I try not to fidget, but my fingers tap an anxious rhythm against my thigh.

I resist the urge to loosen my tie as Dad’s voice echoes in my head: “Don’t show weakness. Casano will eat you alive.”

Thanks for the pep talk, Dad.

The receptionist hangs up. “Someone will be down shortly to escort you,

Mr. Sanchez.”

I nod, stepping back from the desk. My heart hammers against my ribs like it’s trying to escape. Maybe it has the right idea.

“Mr. Sanchez?”

I turn to find a woman watching me with careful assessment. She’s tall, model-gorgeous in an intimidating way. Her pencil skirt and stilettos scream power assistant. This must be the famous Branda Willmith that Dad mentioned—Casano’s right hand and gatekeeper.

“That’s me.”

“I’m Branda, Mr. Casano’s personal assistant. Please follow me.”

Her heels click against the marble as she leads me toward a bank of elevators separated from the main ones. Private, of course. I follow, trying to match her confident stride while my mind races through all the ways this meeting could go wrong.

“Mr. Casano appreciates punctuality,” she says, pressing her palm against a scanner beside the elevator. The doors slide open silently.

“I believe in making good first impressions.”

She gives me a look that says she’s heard every line in the book. “Mr. Casano doesn’t care much for impressions. Only results.”

We step into the elevator, and I notice there are no buttons—just another palm scanner. She presses her hand to it, and we begin to rise. My ears pop as we ascend rapidly.

“So, how long have you worked for Mr. Casano?” I ask, desperate to fill the silence.

“Long enough to know what questions not to answer.” Her smile is polite but distant.

Right. Stupid question.

I clear my throat and straighten my tie again. “Will anyone else be joining our meeting?”

“No. Mr. Casano prefers to handle the Sanchez account personally.”

The Sanchez account. Like my family is just another business transaction. Which, to Casano, we surely are.

I rehearse phrases in my head, mouthing them silently. “Yes, Mr. Casano. Of course, Mr. Casano.” I sound like an intern. But isn’t that essentially what I am? Dad sent me here because I’m expendable—the son who never quite measured up, now useful as a sacrificial lamb.

The elevator doors slide open to reveal a small, discreet hallway with marble walls and a single imposing door at the end. Branda leads me to it, pressing her palm to another scanner. The door clicks open. I step inside and—holy shit.

Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the city like it’s a painting. The furniture is minimal but obviously expensive—leather and chrome and glass. A massive abstract painting dominates one wall, splashes of red like violence contained in a frame.

I step forward and nearly trip as I cross the threshold. Branda pretends not to notice.

“Mr. Casano will be with you momentarily. Would you like something to drink?”

“Water, please.” My throat is suddenly desert-dry.

She nods and disappears, leaving me alone in this sterile, beautiful space. I resist the urge to touch anything and move to the windows, staring out at the city spread below like a toy set. Dad’s penthouse has views, but not like this. This is—

“Mr. Sanchez.”

The voice hits me before I turn around. Deep, with the barest hint of an accent. It fills the room like heavy, inescapable smoke.

I turn and—fuck.

Vincenzo Casano doesn’t just walk into the room. He claims it. Like the air itself rearranges to accommodate him. He’s tall—even taller than I expected—and built like someone who doesn’t just go to the gym but owns it. His suit is clearly bespoke, molding to broad shoulders and a powerful chest.

But it’s his face that sucker-punches me. Sharp jaw, defined by a shadow of stubble that looks intentional rather than lazy. His hair is cut short on the sides, longer on top, not a strand out of place.

And his eyes—Jesus Christ.

Dark and penetrating, like he can see right through my suit to all the insecurities writhing underneath.

This is the man my father has cursed at dinner tables for years. The competitor he wants to destroy. The enemy he’s sent me to face alone. And I want to climb him like a tree.

Fuck. I am so screwed.