Chapter 4

Vincenzo’s POV

I watch Marcelo over the rim of my wine glass, taking my time to truly see him. I’ve negotiated with hundreds of men, yet something about this boy has me shifting in my seat. He’s decidedly not my usual type. Yet here I am, cataloging the fullness of his lips, the way his throat works when he swallows his wine. This is a complication I didn’t anticipate.

Branda brought the Pinot Bianco and disappeared with her usual

efficiency. Marcelo and I have moved to the couch, sitting closer than business demands but not quite close enough for what my body is suggesting. The wine loosens something in him—his posture remains alert, but the flush creeping up his neck makes him look even more appealing.

“Do you like the wine?” I ask, though I already know the answer. His eyes widened at the first sip, betraying his inexperience with vintages of this caliber.

“It’s fine,” he says. “But I didn’t come here to drink.”

I allow myself to smile. “Yet here you are.”

I shift closer, watching his reaction. His body tenses, and he edges away, maintaining the distance between us. Interesting.

“Why so nervous, Mr. Sanchez?”

“I’m not nervous. And I thought we were on a first-name basis, Vincenzo.”

My name in his mouth sounds like a challenge. Most people soften when they say it. Marcelo wields it like a weapon.

“Marcelo, then.” I test his name on my tongue, watching his pupils dilate.

“You haven’t touched the proposal since Branda brought the wine. Not very focused on business, after all.”

He straightens, reaches for the papers. “I’m perfectly focused. You’re the one who insisted on drinking instead of negotiating.”

“I’m negotiating right now. I’m learning what motivates you, what you want, what you fear. Information more valuable than any document you brought with you.”

“What I want is an answer. Twenty-eight percent. Yes or no?”

I take another sip of wine, letting the silence stretch between us. His leg bounces with impatience, a tell he probably doesn’t realize he has.

“Your father sent you here unprepared,” I say finally. “He gave you a number that would insult me, knowing I’d reject it. The question is why.”

Marcelo’s jaw tightens. “The offer is legitimate.”

I set my glass down. “Diego has been in this business longer than you’ve been alive. He knows my terms. He knows my reputation. So why send his son to waste my time with an offer he knew I’d refuse?”

“Maybe he thought you’d be more reasonable with me.”

I can’t help the laugh that escapes me. “Is that what you believe?”

His cheeks flush darker, and it’s not just the wine now. Anger, embarrassment—both look good on him.

“Maybe he thought I could negotiate better than him,” Marcelo insists, his chin lifting in that defiant way I’m starting to appreciate. “Maybe he respects my abilities more than you think.”

“Your father doesn’t strike me as the type to recognize talent in anyone unless it mirrors his own.” I watch the barb land, his expression flickering before he masks it. “No, he sent you for a reason.”

Marcelo drains his wine glass in one swallow. “So enlighten me, since you know my father so well. Why would he send me here?”

I shrug one shoulder. “Perhaps it’s a test—though whether it’s testing you or me remains to be seen.”

“This is bullshit.” He sets his glass down with enough force that I expect it to shatter. “I came here with a legitimate business proposal. You can take it or leave it, but don’t sit there pretending you understand my relationship with my father better than I do.”

I study him for a long moment. The son of my enemy, with fire in his eyes. I should be cautious. I should be strategic. Instead, I find myself wanting to see how much pressure this beautiful, angry young man can withstand before he breaks—or before he pushes back.

“Your father doesn’t trust me,” I say, keeping my voice low. “And I don’t trust him. So why would I trust you?”

His eyes narrow. “I’m not asking for your trust. I’m asking for your business.”

“Business requires a measure of trust.”

“No, it requires contracts and lawyers and binding agreements.” He leans forward. “Which we can arrange once you accept the terms.”

“What if I said yes?” I match his posture, bringing our faces closer. “What if I agreed to twenty-eight percent, signed all the paperwork, shook your hand, and sent you back to your father victorious? What then?”

Hope flashes across his face before suspicion replaces it. “Then we’d have a deal.”

“And you believe your father would honor it?”

Marcelo’s hesitation tells me everything I need to know.

“Of course he would,” he says finally, but the conviction is forced.

I shake my head slowly. “You’re not as good a liar as you think you are.”

“I’m not lying.” His eyes meet mine directly, challenging me to contradict him.

“Then you’re naive.” I refill his wine glass without asking, then my own.

“Diego has been trying to destroy me for years. I know he’d cut off his own arm if he thought the blood would stain my carpet. And I know he wouldn’t hesitate to use anyone—even his own son—to gain an advantage over me.”

“That’s not—”

“How would I know,” I continue, cutting him off, “that this isn’t exactly what he planned? Send his pretty son to seduce me into a bad deal, just like he’d send one of his sluts?”

The moment the words leave my mouth, I see the shift in Marcelo’s eyes. The look of someone who’s been pushed too far.

I anticipate anger. I anticipate sharp words. I do not anticipate the fist that connects with my jaw.

The impact snaps my head to the side, sharp pain blooming where his knuckles meet my face. For a moment, I’m stunned—not by the force of the blow, which was amateur at best, but by the sheer audacity of it. No one has dared to strike me in years. Decades, perhaps.

I slowly turn my head back to look at him. Marcelo stares at me, his eyes wide with horror at what he’s just done. His hand is still partially raised, and I can see the reddening of his knuckles. He’s breathing hard, chest rising and falling in rapid succession.

What fascinates me most is that he doesn’t apologize. He doesn’t stammer excuses or beg forgiveness. He simply watches me, clearly bracing for my reaction but unwilling to back down from his action.