Chapter 2

Marcelo’s POV

“Mr. Casano.” I step forward, extending my hand, praying he can’t see the way he’s affecting me. “Thank you for meeting with me.”

His hand engulfs mine. Warm, dry, with calluses that surprise me. His grip is firm without being aggressive—a man who doesn’t need to prove his strength because it’s self-evident.

“Vincenzo, please.” His voice wraps around the words like velvet over steel.

Our handshake lasts a bit too long. When he releases me, I flex my fingers at my side, trying to shake off the lingering heat of his touch.

“Please, sit.” He gestures to a seating area where two leather armchairs face each other across a glass coffee table.

No desk between us. No barriers. Just direct confrontation.

I sit, trying not to sink too deeply into the soft leather. Vincenzo takes the opposite chair, one arm draped casually over the armrest, legs slightly spread. His posture is relaxed, but I’m not fooled. Everything about him screams predator at rest.

“I must admit, I was surprised when your father suggested this meeting,” he says, watching me with unnerving focus.

“Why would you be surprised?”

“I’m surprised Diego would want to do business with me.” His lip quirks up. “And that he’d send his young son to do his job for him.”

I force a smile. “Perhaps he thought you might appreciate a fresh perspective.”

“Perhaps.” Vincenzo tilts his head. “Or perhaps he’s testing you. Throwing you into the deep end to see if you swim or drown.”

Branda returns with water for both of us, then disappears again. I take a sip, grateful for the moment to collect myself.

“I swim quite well, actually,” I say, setting the glass down. “Though I appreciate your concern for my welfare.”

His eyes narrow. “You have your father’s arrogance. Let’s hope you have more substance behind it than he does.”

I want to defend Dad on principle, but the words stick in my throat. Hasn’t he essentially set me up to fail? Sending me to face the one man he’s never been able to beat?

“I’m not my father,” I say instead.

“No.” Casano leans forward. “You’re not. Which is why we’re having this conversation instead of you being escorted out.”

My heart skips a beat. I can’t tell if that’s a threat or a compliment.

“In that case,” I say, trying to sound businesslike, “shall we discuss the proposal?”

Casano doesn’t blink. “Your father wants access to my hotel chain for his... side businesses. Does he think if he sends his pretty son, I might be more inclined to agree?”

Pretty. There’s that word again, but in Casano’s mouth, it doesn’t sound like the dismissive way Roberto said it. It sounds like a weapon he’s decided to use against me.

“Is it working?” The words slip out before I can stop them.

For a moment, Casano looks surprised. Then he laughs—a low, rich sound that does unreasonable things to my insides.

“You’re bolder than I expected, Marcelo Sanchez.”

“I get that a lot.” I try for casual, but my voice betrays me with a slight waver.

“I doubt that.” He leans back, studying me like I’m a puzzle he’s considering whether to solve or discard. “Most people see exactly what they expect to see.”

“And what do you see?”

His eyes travel over me, not bothering to hide their assessment. I feel exposed, despite being fully clothed.

“I see someone out of his depth but too proud to admit it.” He pauses, his gaze sharpening. “And I see someone sent as a sacrificial pawn in a game he doesn’t understand.”

The words hit like a slap. Sacrificial pawn. Out of my depth. I’ve heard variations of this my whole life.

Marcelo isn’t serious enough. Marcelo isn’t ready. Marcelo is just a pretty face.

I straighten my spine, refusing to shrink under his assessment. If he thinks I’m going to roll over just because he’s got the physique of a Greek god and eyes that could melt steel, he’s in for a fucking surprise.

“With all due respect, Mr. Casano—” I pause, correcting myself. “Vincenzo. If all you see is a pawn, then you’re not looking closely enough.” I lean forward, maintaining eye contact even though it feels like staring into the sun. “I came here to discuss a mutually beneficial arrangement, not to be psychoanalyzed.”

Amusement flickers across his face. “Show me, then. Convince me that this meeting isn’t a waste of my time.”

I reach for my briefcase and pull out the folder containing the proposal I spent all night preparing. Dad barely gave me any direction—just threw me into this meeting with minimal prep. But I stayed up until 3 AM researching Casano’s hotel operations, his market position, everything publicly available.

“My father’s escort service caters to an elite clientele that overlaps significantly with your guests.” I slide the first page across the table, a graph showing potential revenue streams. “By allowing operation within your hotels, you add a premium service that attracts high-end clientele who value both luxury and discretion.”

Vincenzo takes the page, his eyes scanning it quickly. He doesn’t reach for reading glasses or squint at the small print. Just absorbs it like a machine.

“Your father’s operation has been losing market share to Bollini’s service for the past three quarters.”

Shit. I didn’t know that. Dad never mentioned it.

“Which is precisely why this partnership makes sense now,” I counter smoothly, improvising. “Bollini doesn’t have hotel infrastructure. They’re operating out of apartments and private residences. Your hotels provide security, anonymity, and luxury that can’t be matched.”

He raises an eyebrow, probably sensing my bullshit. “And what percentage is Diego proposing?”

I flip to the relevant page, though I already know the number. “Fifteen percent of gross revenue generated through your properties.”

Vincenzo doesn’t laugh, exactly, but the air around him vibrates with amusement. “Fifteen percent.” He sets the paper down. “Your father always did have a sense of humor.”

My stomach drops, but I keep my face neutral. “It’s a starting point for negotiation.”

“It’s an insult.” His voice remains even, which somehow makes it worse.

“Your father wants to use my properties, my security systems, my staff discretion, and my reputation—all while exposing me to potential legal liabilities—for fifteen percent?”

When he puts it that way, it does sound ridiculous. But I can’t show weakness.

“What would you consider fair?”

“Forty percent, at minimum. Plus a security deposit against damages or legal complications.”

I nearly choke. “Forty? That’s—”

“The cost of doing business with me.” He leans back, studying me. “Your father knows this. Which makes me wonder why he sent you with such a lowball offer.”

I’ve been wondering that myself. Did my father want me to fail? Or is he punishing me for not being the son he wanted—a ruthless business shark who only cares about money?

“Forty percent isn’t realistic,” I say finally. “The margins don’t support it. Twenty-five would be our absolute ceiling.”

“Then we have nothing more to discuss.” He doesn’t move to stand, though. His eyes hold mine, waiting.