Page 16 of Mario
Ainsley exhales slowly. “That man is not a normal CEO.”
“No,” I say.
My voice sounds steadier than I feel.
Benjamin watches me carefully. “Are we taking this client?”
I think of the building. The security, money, and opportunity. The risks buried underneath it all. And the way Mario Conti looked at me as if it were already a done deal.
I think of my firm’s name on the door of our small office. The associates standing beside me. The clients we have, the clients we need, and the kind of future that does not build itself.
Then I think of Mario saying, Tomorrow.
My stomach tightens.
“Yes,” I say. “If the agreement is solid, we take the client.”
Ainsley’s expression is unreadable. “And if the agreement isn’t clean?”
The doors open behind us, and two people walk out, chatting about lunch.
On the dark building in neat letters sits the nameConti Enterprises.
“Then we make it solid.”
Chapter Two
Mario
By the time I return home, Chicago is dark.
The house sits behind a stone wall and iron gates in a quiet stretch of the city where privacy matters more than displays of wealth. It is old by American standards, built of limestone and dark brick, with tall windows, deep eaves, and enough distance from the street to make the property feel removed without feeling isolated.
I bought it for the land and location first.
The house was secondary.
There were newer places I could have chosen. Glass boxes with too much light and too little memory. Penthouse floors with views of the lake and no soil beneath them. Modern estates built by men who measure ambition by the size of their homes.
This place was different.
It has history.
Not history that belonged to me, but history nonetheless. A house with good bones, thick walls, excellent sightlines, and enough rooms that my sons could come and go without feeling as though they still lived beneath my roof, even though, for now, they do.
The gates open before the car reaches them.
Diego’s people are discreet, but I see them. One at the guardhouse. One near the side path. Cameras tucked into the corners of the wall, hidden in stonework, angled toward the driveway. Lights designed to look decorative.
A person could look at this house and see elegance.
I look at it and see the angles of attack.
The car stops beneath the covered entry. I step out, buttoning my suit jacket against the cold, and the front door opens before I reach it.
“Good evening, Mr. Conti,” Paolo says.
“Paolo.”
