Chapter Nineteen
Antonio
I sit on the opposite side of the table from her and keep my hands folded like they aren’t itching to do something stupid.
Like they aren’t still remembering her.
Elsa is back in her armor today—non-fitted charcoal suit, conservative lines, makeup chosen to disappear instead of flatter. The kind of look that tells everyone in the room she’s here to work and she dares anyone to suggest otherwise.
It doesn’t matter.
She’s still breathtaking.
The first moment I walked in and saw her sitting there—chin lifted, eyes fixed on her tablet—my lungs stalled.
A full, humiliating second where my body forgot the basics.
I had to force my face into something neutral.
Had to force my stride to stay unhurried.
Had to pretend I didn’t want to cross the room and pull her into my arms like I had any right to.
Then Caterina said my name.
Then she extended her hand.
And it took everything I had not to ruin the whole damn meeting in the first ten seconds by holding on too long. By letting my thumb drag across her knuckles the way it did Friday night. By letting my voice soften when I said “Ms. Nilsson,” even though every part of me wanted to say something else.
I let go because I had to. Because I’m not a fucking animal.
Because I already did enough damage.
Now Roberto is smooth-talking, exactly what we practiced. Caterina is tapping her tablet, laying out governance lanes and escalation paths like a pro with a spreadsheet. They’re good. They’re better than good. They’re the reason this deal makes sense.
And I’m sitting here trying not to look at the woman who could kill it with a single sentence.
I’m supposed to be here to charm them, to lure them over to us and tell them, beyond the numbers and plans, why they would want to work with us personally.
But I angle myself toward Malcolm and David, like Elsa isn’t there.
Like I don’t feel her across the table. Like my attention isn’t catching on the smallest things—the way she grips her pen a touch too tight, the way her posture is perfectly composed, the way she doesn’t glance at me at all, even for a second.
It’s a mirror of Saturday night, and the realization hurts, even though I know the good reasoning.
She’s trying not to give herself away.
So am I.
My chest feels too tight in my suit. I breathe shallowly and keep my expression blank while Roberto says the word “compliance” and Caterina talks about implementation timelines as if the future is guaranteed.
I don’t know if there’s even a point.
I don’t know if Nilsson walked in today with her mind already made up—deal dead, Bellandi lurking, my family exposed because I couldn’t keep my hands to myself.
I don’t know if she’s sitting there listening because she has to, or because she’s still weighing us.
But the meeting wasn’t canceled.
They showed up. On time. Prepared. Stone-faced.
And that—pathetic as it is—gives me hope.
Because if she’d decided to burn us down completely, she could have done it before the weekend was even over. She could have sent one email and walked away, and Monday would’ve been empty chairs and a loss.
Instead, she’s here.
She’s taking notes.
She’s pretending I’m furniture.
And I’m pretending I can survive being this close to her without cracking.
I keep my eyes on Roberto while he talks, and I force myself to be present, to listen, to look useful. To be the man my family needs this morning, not the one who keeps replaying the taste of her and the look on her face when she walked out.
Roberto finishes his high-level. Caterina’s tablet reflects faintly in the light as she scrolls. Malcolm nods, satisfied. David’s pen moves. Eleanor watches like a hawk.
My turn is next.
Roberto will hand it off with a glance, and I’m supposed to do what I do—make it human, make them want us as people, not just names and numbers on a document.
But when Roberto’s gaze shifts toward me, my focus snags—just for a moment—on Elsa’s hands. On the way her knuckles go faintly white around that pen like it’s the only thing keeping her anchored to the chair.
Roberto finishes and turns, smooth as ever. “Antonio can speak to client continuity and relationship management.”
All eyes shift to me.
Including hers.
Not warm. Not inviting. Just steady, assessing.
I draw one slow breath and straighten in my chair, forcing my voice into something calm and charming.
“Of course,” I say, and I keep my gaze on Malcolm instead of her, because if I look at Elsa for too long, I’m going to forget every word in the English language.
“We understand what Northstar is,” I continue. “You’re trusted because you’re disciplined. Because you don’t get sloppy. Because the people who hire you know they can sleep at night and not have to worry.”
A beat.
I let my eyes flick to Elsa for the briefest second—professional timing, nothing more—and it still feels like touching a live wire.
“And we’re not interested in changing that,” I add. “We’re interested in protecting it. Funding it. Giving it a wider platform without breaking the very thing that makes it worth acquiring.”
I shift my hands on the table. Open palms tell them to trust me.
“Client continuity is the whole game,” I say. “Your people don’t want ‘new ownership’ energy. They want the same voices answering the phone, the same standards on the ground, the same discretion they’re paying for.”
I glance at David, then Malcolm, then Eleanor—keep it broad, keep it clean.
“That means we don’t touch your front-facing relationships except to reinforce them. Same leadership lanes. Same compliance guardrails. The difference is you get more resources behind the curtain—more support, more security depth, more infrastructure—without turning the operation into a circus.”
My gaze flicks, against my will, to Elsa again.
She doesn’t react. Doesn’t flinch. Just keeps writing like my voice is nothing.
And somehow that’s worse than anger.
I force my eyes back to Malcolm and keep my voice even.
“And we’re realistic about scrutiny,” I add. “You should assume you’ll find holes—every firm has them. What matters is how fast they get patched, who owns the fix, and whether anyone tries to hide the problem in the first place. We don’t.”
Roberto shifts beside me, a subtle cue to land it.
“So—high level,” I finish, “Northstar stays Northstar. We just make it harder to crack and easier to scale without compromising what makes it worth trusting.”
Silence holds for half a beat.
David’s pen pauses. Eleanor’s gaze sharpens like she’s weighing the words. Malcolm gives a small nod and looks down at his notes.
And Elsa—still not looking up—turns the page on her tablet and continues taking notes.
The last ten minutes of the meeting drag the way the last ten minutes always drag when you just want it to be over with.
Malcolm is calm, CEO-smooth, wrapping up with neutral language about “next steps” and “timeline alignment.” David asks one final question about documentation flow and internal sign-off—precise, surgical.
Eleanor’s eyes stay sharp, giving nothing, taking everything.
And Elsa—
Elsa doesn’t look at me once.
She keeps that pen moving like her life depends on it. She doesn’t fidget. She doesn’t blink too much. She doesn’t do anything that would give a person like me something to grab onto.
It shouldn’t bother me like this.
It does.
Roberto is already shifting into close-out mode, voice even, professional. “We appreciate the time. We’ll have our team immediately available for any follow-up questions.”
“Thank you,” Malcolm says. “We’ll review, and we’ll be in touch.”
Chairs start to move. Portfolios close. Tablets go dark. The meeting ends.
Caterina’s foot nudges mine under the table.
Not hard. Not playful.
A shove.
I keep my face neutral and don’t look at her, because if I do, she’ll know. She already knows something is off. She’s been watching me since we walked in. Since I didn’t crack a joke. Since I didn’t fill the air with charm and chatter the way I usually do.
Her pen taps once against her tablet—another silent instruction.
Do your thing.
Charm her.
Feel her out.
Get her on our side.
Because whatever Roberto and Caterina are pretending right now, I can taste their uncertainty. They didn’t love Elsa’s lack of reaction. They didn’t love the way she stayed locked down. They didn’t love the fact that they couldn’t read her.
So they’re handing her to me like a problem I can solve.
The irony almost makes me laugh.
Almost.
I didn’t plan to speak to Elsa here. Not like this. Not with an audience. Not with my family maneuvering pieces around us. I planned—God, I don’t even know what I planned. I just knew I couldn’t let the silence keep on.
But not an ambush.
Not the second the meeting ends.
And not with Caterina practically pushing me toward her with her eyes.
Roberto stands first. “The main restaurant in The Regent Club is family-owned,” he says smoothly. “They did the catering at the party the other night. I’d like to offer you a complimentary meal. No business talk.”
Malcolm’s expression stays pleasant. “Sure,” he says, already rising.
David closes his portfolio with a crisp snap and stands. “That sounds great.”
Eleanor’s smile is faint. “Lead the way.”
Roberto doesn’t look at me, but I feel the intention in the movement. He’s steering them out. Creating a gap for me to slide into.
Elsa moves to follow them as well, but Caterina steps smoothly in.
“Ms. Nilsson,” she says, tone bright. “You weren’t here the night of the gala, when the rest of the Northstar team got a tour. Would you like one? Just a quick one. We won’t hold you from lunch too long. It might help contextualize some of the operational pieces.”
Elsa stops and looks at Caterina politely.
“Yes,” she says evenly. “That would be helpful.”
Caterina’s smile brightens. “Perfect.”
She turns her head just enough to effortlessly include me.
“Antonio would be happy to take you,” she adds, light as air. “He’s our best tour guide.”
Elsa’s professional smile holds—barely. The corners stay in place, but I see the strain in it like a hairline crack in glass. And I see the moment she realizes what this is.
A setup. A funnel.
And she’s too professional to refuse.
Her gaze flicks to me for a heartbeat.
Flat. Polite. Unforgiving.
“Of course,” she says, and her tone could freeze water. “Mr. Conti.”
Roberto is already halfway to the door with Malcolm, David, and Eleanor, talking about reservations and views and how the chef sources seafood. He’s good. He makes it sound natural.
Caterina gathers her tablet and steps around the table, still smiling like none of this is engineered.
“Wonderful,” she says. “I’ll catch up with you at lunch.”
She walks to the door, opens it, and slips out.
Then she pauses, just long enough to look back at me.
Her expression isn’t amused now.
It’s command.
Handle it.
The door shuts behind her.
And the soft click of it interrupts the silence like a gunshot.