Page 8 of Mario
He does not hurry.
He’s not a man who needs to.
He crosses the room like a man with nothing to prove to anyone in it, and when he extends his hand, I meet him halfway.
His grip is firm. Warm. Brief.
“Ms. Murray.”
His voice is low and deep. Rougher than I expect. Not unpolished, exactly. Just not as smooth as Lorenzo’s. He, too, has an accent, but it’s more pronounced. Not enough to interfere with the words, but enough to make every word feel deliberate.
A small, unwanted tingle starts at the base of my spine, and I fight off the urge to shiver.
“Mr. Conti,” I say, and I am grateful when my voice comes out steady.
His eyes stay on mine for one second longer than necessary. Then his thumb shifts against my hand.
Barely.
It’s probably nothing.
It doesn’t feel like nothing.
Or maybe I’m just imagining it because the man is far more compelling in person than his photographs suggested, and I’m just being ridiculous.
“We appreciate you coming,” he says.
“I appreciate the opportunity.”
His mouth moves slightly into something I can’t really call a smile, and alarm bells go off somewhere in my head.
Lorenzo’s voice pierces through the unprofessional thoughts quickly forming in my mind.
“Please, sit anywhere,” he says.
I quickly retract my hand and turn back to my associates, willing my face not to burn bright red.
I choose a seat facing the windows.
Ainsley sits to my left, Benjamin to my right. Lorenzo takes a seat across from Ainsley.
Mario takes the chair directly across from me.
Of course.
A woman enters quietly and offers coffee. We decline politely. Water is poured, then she leaves without a sound.
The door closes.
The room settles, and I’m grateful for the moment to get my head back where it belongs.
Mario leans back slightly, one hand resting on the table. No papers in front of him. No laptop. No pen.
Lorenzo has all three.
Interesting.
“Before we begin,” Lorenzo says, “we read through your preliminary proposal. It’s thorough.”
