Page 236 of Merciless Daddy

His eyes changed.

There he was.

Not the heir. Not the businessman. The frightened, second-rate son who had murdered his father and still could not become the man whose chair he wanted.

“You will sign anyway,” he said.

“No.”

“You will.”

He smiled again, but nothing pleasant remained in it.

“And afterward, I will make certain every day is hell.”

I turned toward the screen and read the first clause.

Not because I intended to sign.

Because Sal had taught me what to do when fear tried to make the world small.

Breathe.

Observe.

Choose.

So I breathed.

I read.

And I waited for the man who was always coming.

The steel door opened at eleven-oh-two, and a woman walked through it. She was striking.

She wore a fitted black suit beneath a camel coat, dark hair pinned at the nape, every detail controlled. An antique ring flashed on one hand. The other carried a locked equipment case.

Four armed men escorted her.

She looked at Gianni first. Then she looked at me.

No warmth. No surprise. No apology.

Only assessment.

“Well,” she said. “Sorry we had to meet this way. Don’t take it personal, but you look like shit.”

I stared at her.

Gianni came around the desk with open delight.

“Donatella Caruso,” he said. “You look beautiful. I’m so glad we could arrange this meeting—you’re my favorite Caruso by far.”

“Don’t waste my time with flattery,” she replied.

Her English was crisp. Chicago underneath it. A trace of Italy appeared only around the hard consonants.

Gianni offered his hand.