Chapter 3

Marcelo's POV

“Twenty-eight,” I counter, doing mental math. “And we handle all client transportation and security.”

The corner of his mouth ticks up slightly. “You don’t have the authority to make that offer.”

“Try me.”

Before he can respond, a sharp knock interrupts us. The door opens without waiting for a response, and a young man walks in. He’s conventionally handsome in that polished, private-school way—blonde hair, strong jaw, eyes that photograph well for company headshots. He’s

carrying a tablet and wearing a suit that screams money but whispers insecurity.

“Mr. Casano, I’m sorry to interrupt, but—” His eyes flick to me, then back to Vincenzo, lingering a beat too long. “The Tokyo investors are on the line. They’re concerned about the reports from the health inspector at the Kyoto property.”

Vincenzo’s posture shifts. The casual confidence hardens into something more commanding. I watch, fascinated, as he transforms from intimidating businessman to apex predator without moving a muscle.

“Tell them I’ll call back in two hours. Have Branda compile the recent renovation documents and health certificates. If they’re worried about structural concerns, remind them we undertook a complete renovation of the system last quarter.” His voice is calm but allows no argument.

“But, sir, Mr. Tiniko specifically asked—”

“That wasn’t a request, Daniel.” Vincenzo’s tone doesn’t change, but the temperature in the room drops ten degrees.

The man—Daniel—flushes. “Understood, sir. I’ll tell them two hours.” He clutches his tablet like a shield. “And should I mention the, um, the special arrangements we discussed for Mr. Tiniko’s personal preferences when hevisits next month?”

Vincenzo’s eyes narrow. “We’ll discuss that later.”

“Yes, sir. Of course.” Daniel’s gaze slides to me again, this time with curiosity. “Would you like me to prepare a conference room for you and...”

He gestures vaguely in my direction.

“That won’t be necessary. Mr. Sanchez and I are fine here,” Vincenzo says, his tone dismissive. “Handle the Tokyo issue as instructed.”

“Right away, sir.” Daniel straightens his tie and backs toward the door.

“I’ve also left the sample contracts on your desk for review. The ones you requested... for the personal services expansion.” His eyes dart to me again, checking if I’ve caught his meaning.

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Subtle as a sledgehammer, this one.

“Thank you, Daniel. That will be all.” Vincenzo dismisses him with nothing but his tone.

Daniel hesitates for a fraction of a second, clearly hoping for something more—a smile, a nod, any crumb of personal acknowledgment. When none comes, he nods and leaves.

Once the door closes behind him, I let out a scoff before I can stop myself.

Vincenzo’s attention snaps back to me, those dark eyes pinning me in place.

“Something amusing, Mr. Sanchez?”

I shrug. “Just wondering if you sleep with all your employees or just the pretty ones.”

The look he gives me could freeze hell. “I don’t sleep with my employees.”

“Right. And that wasn’t a lovesick puppy trying desperately to impress you.”

“Daniel’s personal feelings are irrelevant to his job performance.” Vincenzo studies me, his expression unreadable. “And I maintain strict boundaries in my professional relationships.”

I let out a short laugh. “Sure. And I’m the Queen of England.”

Vincenzo doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he watches me with an intensity that heats my skin. I fight the urge to fidget under his gaze, refusing to show discomfort.

“Who hurt you?” he asks, the question so unexpected I almost flinch.

“What?”

“You have the cynical edge of someone recently hurt.” His eyes haven’t left mine. “Someone who expects the worst of people because that’s what they’ve received.”

“You know nothing about me.” I hate how defensive I sound.

“I know disappointment when I see it. Is it your father? Sending you to negotiate with a man he calls his enemy—that shows a certain callousness.”

My pulse quickens. How the fuck did we get here? “My relationship with my father isn’t relevant to our business discussion.”

“Everything is relevant when I’m considering a partnership.” His voice softens a fraction, which somehow makes it more dangerous. “I don’t do business with people I don’t understand.”

“You want my life story before discussing percentage points?” I try for sarcasm, but it falls flat.

“I want to know who I’m really dealing with.” He taps one finger against the arm of his chair. “How old are you, Marcelo?”

The sudden shift throws me. “Twenty-two,” I answer before I can think better of it. Then, lifting my chin: “How old are you?”

For a second, I think I’ve crossed a line. His expression freezes, and I brace for anger. Then, unexpectedly, he smiles—a brief, genuine thing that transforms his face and sends entirely inappropriate heat through my body.

“Forty-three,” he says. “Old enough to recognize deflection when I see it.”

Before I can respond, he presses a button on his phone. “Branda?”

Her voice comes through immediately. “Yes, Mr. Casano?”

“Bring a bottle of the 2005 Pinot Bianco and two glasses.” He pauses.

“And make sure we’re not disturbed for the remainder of Mr. Sanchez’s visit.”

“Right away, sir.”

I straighten, alarm bells ringing. “I’m not drinking. This is a business meeting.”

Vincenzo’s eyes meet mine. “This is a negotiation, and I negotiate better with wine.” His voice drops. “If you want to make your father happy with a completed deal, you’ll join me.”

The reference to my father’s expectations feels like a finger pressed against a bruise. He knows exactly what he’s doing, this bastard.

“Fine,” I say through clenched teeth. “One glass.”

“We’ll see.” There’s something in his tone that sends a shiver down my spine—not fear exactly, but awareness. Like standing on the edge of a high dive, knowing you’re going to jump but not quite ready to admit it to yourself.

I watch him as he stands to remove his suit jacket, draping it over the back of his chair. The movement pulls his shirt tight across his shoulders, highlighting the powerful build under the tailored fabric. My mouth goes dry, and I quickly look away.

What the hell am I doing? This man is twice my age, my father’s business rival, and clearly dangerous in ways I don’t fully understand. Yet here I am, agreeing to drink wine with him in this private penthouse while my body responds to his every movement like it’s been programmed to.

I know I’m getting into something way over my head. The worst thing is, some reckless part of me doesn’t want to stop. That same part wants to find out exactly how deep these waters go.