Chapter Eighteen
Elsa
The conference room at The Regent Club Casino is already set—water, notepads, a screen on the wall that’s dark for now. Everything arranged for a conversation centered around business.
I sit, and my stomach churns like it didn’t get the memo.
David is next to me, already squared to the table with his portfolio open, pen in hand, posture neat and unreadable. Eleanor sits across, composed in the way she always is—legs crossed, chin lifted, eyes sharp. Malcolm has the foot of the table, between us, phone facedown, fingers steepled.
And me—I'm the problem in the room, even if no one knows it.
I keep my hands on the table, palms flat for a second, then curl them around my pen because if I don’t hold something, I’ll start picking myself apart. My heartbeat is loud in my ears. The kind of loud that makes you wonder if everyone else can hear it.
I feel sick.
Not nerves like a presentation. Not nerves like a difficult negotiation. This is different—hot and sour and physical, like my body is trying to reject the moment before it happens. I swallow, and my throat tightens.
For one ugly second, I’m sure I’m going to puke right here in front of them, in front of the clean table and the calm faces and the polished neutrality.
I breathe in through my nose, slowly. Out through my mouth, slower.
Hold it together.
My gaze drops to the agenda on my tablet. It’s the same outline I’ve stared at for two days, as if repetition could turn dread into readiness. Due diligence. Timeline. Governance. Risk. Process.
And then there’s the part that isn’t on the agenda.
Antonio.
The thought sits on my chest like a weight. I don’t know if I can do this. I don’t know if I can sit across from him and keep my face smooth and my voice even and my hands still.
I don’t know if I can listen to him speak as if Friday night never happened, as if Saturday night didn’t crack something open and then shatter it.
Yesterday was a blank, useless stretch of hours where I didn’t have to be anything for anyone. No calls. No meetings. No performance. I let myself exist in the aftermath because I couldn’t do anything else. I couldn’t handle the world. I couldn’t handle my own head.
But today isn’t optional.
Today is the day I have to walk into the room and be the version of myself that never breaks—doesn’t blush, doesn’t shake, doesn’t flinch when a man looks at her like he knows how she sounds when she comes apart under him.
I lift my chin and keep my expression neutral, because Eleanor will notice if I don’t. David will notice. Malcolm definitely will.
The door is still closed.
As per my habit, we’re early. I curse the damn thing because now we’re waiting for the Contis to arrive.
My stomach rolls again, sharp and warning, and I force my breath steady—because whatever happens when that door opens, I’m going to be composed.
I have to be.
The seconds stretch.
David flips one page in his portfolio, the sound too loud in my head, then stills again. Eleanor checks her watch once—subtle, elegant—like impatience is beneath her. Malcolm’s gaze lifts to the door, then back to his notes, calm in a way that makes me want to crawl out of my skin.
I keep my eyes on my tablet even though I’m not reading it.
Footsteps hit the corridor outside—unhurried, more than one set. My spine locks.
The handle turns.
I don’t look up right away. I refuse to. I make myself count one breath in, one breath out, like I’m in control of my own body.
The door opens. Voices—low, familiar to everyone here but me.
Except one.
I lift my head, and the world tilts.
It’s him.
Antonio Conti. In a dark suit that fits him so well it looks like an extension of him. No tie this morning. Collar open at the throat, just enough to be unbothered and in charge.
His hair is neat, the jawline clean, the eyes… God, the eyes. They find me across the room before I have a chance to brace for it. No warmth. No recognition. Just cool, assessing, and then he looks away as if I’m just a piece of the furniture. As if I could be anyone.
My pulse hammers so hard I can feel it in my throat, but my face stays still. My hands are steady around my pen. I learned control a long time ago. He doesn’t get to take it from me now.
The other two who walk in are obviously family, as the physical similarities are too obvious for them not to be. Roberto and Caterina Conti.
The man who must be Roberto Conti steps to me first. He’s in a suit that’s obviously expensive without screaming for attention, jacket buttoned, posture straight, expression charming. He has the kind of face that would make me think lawyer even if I didn’t know beforehand.
Beside him, Caterina Conti moves with a different kind of authority—sharper, younger, more energy.
Her blazer is fitted, her hair sleek, her eyes alert in a way that makes it clear she’s already scanned the room and clocked everyone and everything in it.
She carries a tablet like it’s an extension of her arm.
David stands first. Then Malcolm. Eleanor follows. I stand with them, smooth and on time, chair sliding back without a squeak. My stomach rolls again, but I keep my shoulders relaxed.
Roberto’s gaze lands on me with the same measured assessment he gave the rest of the room. No hint that he knows anything about what happened between his brother and me—good. I keep my face neutral and step forward.
“Ms. Nilsson,” he says.
“Mr. Conti,” I answer, and offer my hand.
His grip is firm but not crushing. A handshake that says: I’m respectful, and I’m watching. His eyes hold mine for a beat longer than protocol requires, like he’s taking my measure the way I’m taking his.
“Thank you for making the time to meet with us,” he says.
“Of course,” I reply, because I’m here to do a job.
Caterina steps in next, and her smile is polite but professional.
“Ms. Nilsson,” she says, and her tone carries something faintly amused, as if she’s been looking forward to meeting the person holding the keys.
“Ms. Conti,” I say, giving her the courtesy of using her name back. I extend my hand.
Her handshake is crisp and confident. She doesn’t squeeze, but she doesn’t yield. She looks me straight in the eye, and I recognize the sensation instantly: a woman who has been in too many rooms where she had to prove she belonged, and decided she’d rather make people prove they did.
“I’ve heard you’re thorough,” she says, still smiling.
“I am,” I answer, just as smoothly. “I’ve heard you’re precise.”
Her brow lifts a fraction—approval, maybe, or just interest. “I am.”
Caterina’s gaze flicks, quick as a blade, to my tablet on the table, then back to me. “We brought everything you requested,” she adds. “And if there’s anything you need beyond that, I can have it pulled immediately.”
“Good,” I say, and my voice is steady even as my stomach tries to revolt again. “That will make today easier.”
Caterina shifts slightly, and the last introduction is inevitable.
“Antonio Conti,” Caterina says.
Antonio steps forward like he’s been standing in the wings, waiting for a cue. He’s not looking at me yet, and I use the half-second to fortify my posture. To remind my lungs to keep breathing. To tell my hands not to shake. I extend my hand.
His gaze finally meets mine.
And it’s empty.
No heat. No memory.
“Ms. Nilsson,” he says, voice smooth. Professional. Like he’s never had his mouth on my throat—or anywhere else.
For one brutal second, my body betrays me. Memory flashes—his hand on my skin, his grip, the way those fingers know exactly how to hold and coax and ruin.
I swallow it down.
I keep my face still. I keep my eyes cool. I take his hand like he’s just another man across a conference table.
His palm is warm. Familiar in a way I refuse to think about.
“Mr. Conti,” I say, polite as ice.
His fingers close around mine—firm, controlled, perfectly appropriate. But the contact is a live wire, and I hate him for the jolt it sends through me. I hold his gaze for half a heartbeat longer than necessary, the way I did with Roberto.
If he’s going to pretend, so am I.
Then I release him first. Clean. Smooth.
Like I’ve never met him.
Like I don’t know exactly what that hand can do to me when the lights are low, and the door is shut.
He gives a small, courteous nod, nothing more.
“Shall we?” Roberto says, gesturing toward the table as if this is any other Monday.
“Please,” Malcolm replies, and everyone moves at once—chairs sliding, portfolios opening, tablets waking.
I take my seat without rushing. The moment my knees bend, my stomach twists again, hard enough that a thin sheen of sweat breaks at the back of my neck. I keep my expression neutral anyway, because that’s the only option.
Antonio sits across and slightly to my right, angled toward Malcolm and David like I don’t exist. His hands fold on the table, still, composed.
I force my eyes to my tablet.
Agenda. Process. Risk.
Not the memory of his body on mine. Not the sound of his voice whispering in my ear.
Malcolm clears his throat. “Thank you all for coming. We’ll keep this structured.”
Roberto nods once. “Of course.”
“And,” Malcolm continues, “before we get into documents, we’d like to hear—at a high level—how you see integration working if we move forward.”
Roberto doesn’t hesitate. He shifts his hands on the table, calm and prepared.
“Integration is the point,” he says evenly. “We’re not looking to slap our name on your operation and call it a day. We want Northstar to stay Northstar—same standards, same compliance posture, same client discretion. We provide capital, infrastructure, and a broader platform. You keep the spine.”
Caterina taps her tablet once, already pulling up what she needs. “Operationally, nothing changes without sign-off. We’d set joint governance lanes, clear escalation paths, and an implementation timeline that doesn’t disrupt client service.”
Malcolm nods, satisfied, and looks to David. “All right. Let’s move into the materials.”
I keep my face composed as I open my notes, pen poised.
Business. Process. Control.
I can do this.
I hope to God I can do this.