Page 4 of Ricardo

Men in expensive suits come in believing they are here for a meeting with a businessman, then sit straighter the moment they realize that ‘businessman’ doesn’t quite cover it. Mario’s name carries a lot more weight once you come face-to-face with the man.

By the end of the first week, I know which calls go through, which ones get held, which names make Benjamin from Legal appear from behind the frosted glass with a folder in his hand, and which ones make Mario go very still before he says, “Put him through.”

By the end of the second week, I know there are meetings I am not meant to ask about.

This is one of them.

The investor arrives at 9:58 in a navy suit, polished shoes, and the kind of smile men practice before stepping into rooms where money is discussed.

His name is Malcolm Reeves. He is new to me, but not to Mario. Mario comes out of his office to greet him personally, which tells me enough. They shake hands. Mario gives him that calm, unreadable smile of his, and then the two of them disappear behind the closed office door.

No interruptions.

That is what Mario says before he goes in.

So I do not interrupt.

I answer three calls. I reschedule one lunch. I send two documents to Lorenzo’s office. I confirm a vendor meeting for next Thursday and, as usual, pretend not to notice Mario’s private security lingering near the elevator.

Another thing I’m not supposed to ask about.

Then, at 10:23, the elevator opens again.

I look up automatically.

And forget, for one ridiculous second, how to breathe.

Ricardo Conti steps out.

I know him. Technically. I knew him back when I was running wild in college with Dante back in Naples.

These days, I mostly just know his name. I know his place in the family. I know he is Mario’s brother, the second-oldest, the one people describe with careful words that mean more than they say. Dealmaker. Diplomat. Negotiator. The charming one.

Charming is not the same thing as harmless.

I have seen him from a distance more than once since starting here.

This is the first time he has walked directly toward my desk since the day Mario interviewed me.

He wears a charcoal suit that fits him as if someone built it around him. White shirt. No tie. The top button open, with just enough carelessness to make it clear the carelessness is deliberate.

His hair is dark, threaded heavily with silver at the temples. Not enough to age him into softness. Enough to make him look settled in himself and comfortable in his own skin. Like a man who has lived long enough to know exactly what he is doing and never needs to rush.

His eyes find mine.

Green, I thought at first.

But no. They’re darker than that. Hazel, maybe, touched with gold under the office lights.

“Miss O’Brien,” he says.

His accent changes my name.

That old-world Italian warmth in his voice makes something in my stomach react.

I stand.

“Mr. Conti.”