Page 14 of Mario
Lorenzo says, “Mario.”
Mario does not look at him. “We did not bring Ms. Murray here because the work can wait.”
Typically, this would be the point I would firmly say no and walk out. Pressure from entitled executives who think that every professional, especially professional women, should rearrange their calendars for them, and be grateful for it, is cause for dropping an account.
But this doesn’t feel like that. This feels like something else entirely.
Mario Conti strikes me as a man who doesn't hear the word “no” often. He strikes me as a man who often gets what he wants when he wants.
But also as a man who has earned it.
He knows exactly what he is asking.
He also knows what the account is worth.
I find myself curious.
I smile politely. “My firm does not begin work without an executed engagement letter.”
“Then you’ll have one today.”
“After my review.”
“Of course.”
“And after I review any proposed modifications from your side.”
His mouth curves again. “You expect modifications?”
“I’m an attorney. I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
Lorenzo laughs under his breath.
“We can have our counsel send revisions within the hour.”
“Send them to me directly,” I say and hold out my business card.
Mario’s gaze meets mine, and he reaches out to take the business card from me.
His fingers brush mine.
Barely.
It is nothing.
A professional exchange. A business card passed across a conference table at the end of a meeting.
Except my body does not receive the information that way.
My pulse gives one hard, stupid kick and gallops away before I can rein it in.
Mario turns the card over once, reading the front, then the back. As if there is anything on it he does not already know.
“Victoria Murray,” he says.
My name in his voice does very bad, dangerous… oh-so-delicious things to me.
That faint Italian accent wrapping around each syllable.
