Resolute (Kinsmen Billionaires #3)

1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Vicente Godoy

“ Y ou ready to get your arse kicked?” Owen grins as he yanks off his shirt, tossing it onto the bench in the club locker room.

This isn’t just any private elite men’s club. Onyx isn’t just about cocktails and cigars and talking business. It’s where men like us—spoiled, filthy-rich elites—come and let our most basic instincts run free. We drop the masks we wear for boardrooms, and let our rage and insanity run wild. Onyx is where reputations are bruised and egos are shattered.

“I didn’t come to talk. I’m ready to kick your arse,” I shoot back, matching his grin with a wicked smirk.

“Bloody hell. Vic is ready to throw some punches. Let’s do this.”

The familiar rush of anticipation burns in my gut as we head into the ring. Owen is my best friend since uni, but once we’re on the mat, friendship doesn’t matter.

James, my cornerman, approaches to help us with our helmets and gloves. “Don’t go easy on him, boss,” he mutters.

The bell rings, and Owen and I start circling each other.

I throw the first punch—clean, fast, and straight to his jaw. He stumbles but recovers quickly.

“Rough day at the office?” I taunt, dodging his punch and connecting with a solid hit to his midsection.

“You trying to distract me, you wanker?” Owen huffs as he rubs the spot I just connected with.

“Not a chance. Now spill. How did the meeting go?”

He dances around the mat, evading my strikes. “I’d say it went well. The numbers look good, the reports are solid but…”

I pause mid-step, narrowing my eyes. “But what? What’s wrong?” I ask, curious about why he’s not closing the deal he’s been talking about for a month.

As the head of the Godoy Group, I’m in charge of managing my family’s investments and looking for opportunities to grow our portfolio. It’s only natural that my friend feels comfortable asking for advice from someone who manages a twenty-seven billion-dollar fortune.

“I don’t know, Vic. Something feels off,” he says, hitting my jaw so hard that it takes me a second to see straight.

“Motherfucker,” I growl, shaking it off as I put my gloved fists back up. “And here I was about to offer my help.”

Owen smirks. “Who says I need your help?”

“Your face did. You look like a man who is about to make a shitty decision.”

He lunges, but I duck and slam a punch into his gut, driving the air out of his lungs.

We spar for three more rounds. By the end, the ref declares me the winner, and I shout, playfully shoving Owen’s shoulder as we leave the ring.

“Yeah, yeah. You won this time,” he mutters, still trying to catch his breath. “Next time, I’ll be the one shouting like a lunatic.”

I chuckle at his assessment.

Owen always tries to best me when we spar, but he never wins. He’s fast, I’ll give him that, but he’s no match for my six-foot-three frame or the thirty pounds of muscle I have on him. His wiry build doesn’t even come close to my sheer strength.

“By help, you mean…?” His voice trails off, but the question hangs between us.

I look up, meeting his gaze.

This has always been our dynamic. We’re both smart, calm—you could even say cold— when it comes to business. But I’m the shark. The risk-taker. The one who knows how to close a deal.

And he knows it.

“I’ll go in and make sure you’re getting the best deal possible,” I say at last.

Relief washes over Owen.

Who is he making a deal with that has him so on edge? I hope it’s not George Davies. That wanker is shady as fuck.

“I could kiss you right now,” he says, grinning as he puckers his lips and makes obnoxious kissy noises.

I drive my elbow into his stomach, forcing a sharp grunt out of him as he doubles over. “Cut the shit, Clarke.”

“Nah, you love me.”

“You have a wife, for Christ’s sake. If you wanted a husband, you should have thought about that before putting a ring on Gemma’s finger.”

He bursts out laughing, and I try to keep my smile at bay. I enjoy being a grumpy arsehole.

Joking around with Owen comes naturally. I’ve been living in London for seventeen years now, and I can say with complete certainty—he is the only person who saw past my new money status and offered me his friendship without hesitation.

When I moved here for uni, I was like any other eighteen-year-old kid—goofy, loud, and full of dreams.

But what I thought was normal didn’t fit here. Yes, I had money. But mine didn’t come from nobility. It came from the hard work of a French immigrant in Chile.

I was quickly labeled less than— and I took it to heart.

Except for Owen. He stuck with me from the get-go.

So I adapted. I lost my accent and buried my customs—I just wanted to fit in.

With time, people stopped seeing me as different and accepted the person I became—a ruthless negotiator with a knack for closing tough deals. I tripled my family’s fortune, and once people saw what I was capable of, they stopped caring about where I came from.

But sometimes, I wonder—will I ever truly fit in back in Chile?

That’s all my father wants—for me to move back and take over the family vineyard. Maybe that’s why I haven’t been able to give him an answer. Because in trying so hard to belong here , I lost the version of myself that belonged there .

I became someone I know wouldn’t be able to function in Chile.

“Any plans for tonight?” Owen calls from the shower, yanking me out of my thoughts.

I walk into a stall two showers down and start cleaning myself after sweating for almost an hour.

“Not really. I need to see what’s going on tonight. Maybe Mrs. Evans left me something on my desk to work on.”

“What? No. You need to go out. Spend some money. Live the life.” He scoffs.

That used to be my life. And I loved every single minute of it—until I didn’t. Now, I just don’t find joy in going out to clubs or having meaningless sex with strangers. Something is fucking wrong with me.

“Wait, didn’t Mrs. Evans just retire?” Owen asks.

All the blood drains from my brain, and I freeze mid-scrub. “Shit.”

“You forgot? You arsehole.” Owen’s laugh echoes off the bathroom walls. “That lady has been working for you for ages, and you forgot about her retirement? Damn, you’re a worse boss than I am.”

I try to remember if there was a farewell party or even a plan to celebrate her. Mrs. Evans has been my assistant since I finished uni and took over managing my family’s money. And she was old then . Yeah, she definitely needed to retire.

Fuck. Who’s going to be my assistant now? How is it possible that I manage the largest privately owned wealth of Chile, yet I can’t remember my assistant retiring—or figure out how to replace her?

“I have to go. I’ll see you next week,” I say, rinsing the soap off as fast as I can.

I turn off the water and grab a towel, my mind racing.

“I’ll text you the details for the meeting on Monday,” Owen says as I towel myself off and throw on the first thing I see in my locker—a Balmain tracksuit.

Nodding, I head for the exit. My mind already shifting to the rest of the day.

“Leaving already, Mr. Godoy?” the valet asks as I flag him down to bring my car around.

“Yes, I need my car. Quickly.”

He nods and quickly disappears into the car park. Glancing at my watch, I see it’s ten to seven. If there was a farewell party for Mrs. Evans, I’m sure it’s over by now. I’ll head to the office anyway. Maybe I can find her address and personally apologize for being the worst boss ever.

When I step onto my office floor, the silence is deafening.

Of course, you idiot. What were you expecting? It’s Friday night. Everyone is gone.

As I head toward my office, Mrs. Evans materializes out of nowhere.

“Oh, Mr. Godoy, right on time.”

Where did she even come from?

I’m about to apologize for missing her retirement celebration, but as I take a closer look, I notice she seems frazzled—a first in the ten years I’ve known her.

Her white hair is still coiffed to perfection, not a single hair out of place. A hint of pink blush and lipstick adorn her face, making her blue eyes pop. She’s always dressed to the nines—crisp white shirts paired with vibrant skirts. She’s classical elegance with every step of her lean and fragile body.

But today, something is off.

Ever since her husband passed away years ago, the light in her eyes dimmed. They never had kids, and I can’t even begin to imagine how lonely her life is.

Maybe it’s just dawning on her what she is going to do with all the time she’ll have on her hands now that she has retired.

“Mrs. Evans, is everything okay?” I ask as I approach.

“Of course, you forgot,” she says with an exasperated sigh, grabbing my forearm.

My shoulders sag. I don’t think I’ve felt this embarrassed in a long time. I treat all my employees with respect, but I don’t generally care what they think of me. Mrs. Evans, however, is special.

“Today’s my last day, Mr. Godoy. I’m retiring.” She rolls her eyes, and it takes everything in me not to chuckle.

“Yes, I know. That’s why I’m here,” I say, slipping into my no-nonsense boss tone. But her raised brow tells me she sees right through it.

“It’s okay, Mr. Godoy. I was expecting this.”

With another exasperated sigh, she leads me toward my office. I follow, still dumbfounded.

“I took the liberty of getting myself a retirement present—with the company card, of course,” she says.

I shake my head, half in disbelief. Of course she did. She’s always been the one to buy presents for my family and friends on my behalf, so this is right up her alley. But I do feel like shit.

What kind of arsehole boss makes their assistant buy her own retirement gift?

“You’re not an arsehole boss, Mr. Godoy,” Mrs. Evans says, as if reading my mind. “But there is room for improvement, that’s for sure.”

A deep, unexpected belly laugh bursts from me. Few people in the world can get away with talking to me like this.

She has been my sounding board for years and has never questioned me. Instead, she has helped me build the confidence to explore new business ventures. If anyone has earned the right to call me out, it’s her.

“So what do you have for me?” I ask, sitting down and grabbing a bright red folder on my desk. Once I open it, I find my weekend schedule printed on paper. My brows furrow. Why would Mrs. Evans print this when everything is synced to my digital planner?

“I printed your schedule for the next couple of days since your parents arrive this evening.”

A blank stare is all I can manage. My parents are arriving tonight? How could I have forgotten?

“Right. That’s right, Mrs. Evans.” I press my fingers against my temples, my calm facade slipping. “I trust you’ve made all the arrangements for their arrival?”

She doesn’t reply—just lifts an eyebrow.

I chuckle, shaking my head. “Of course you did.”

“I also hired my replacement,” she informs me. “She has all the credentials required to be a competitive executive assistant but has been out of the workforce for a couple of years.”

I sigh. “Mrs. Evans, I truly appreciate you staying on top of things, but you know how stressful this job is. Credentials aren’t enough—I need someone who’s ready to hit the ground running.” I straighten, my voice firm, leaving no room for argument.

“With all due respect, Mr. Godoy, I wouldn’t hire someone who’s not able to keep up with the workload” She meets my gaze without hesitation. “She’s a single mom, has impeccable credentials, and I’m sure she can handle you.”

I raise an eyebrow, but before I can get a word out, she presses on.

“And before you object, I would like you to give her at least six months before you even think about looking for a different assistant.”

Damn, she’s good.

“Let’s say I agree to a six-month trial. I‘d like to speak with her before Monday. Would you give me her phone number?”

She smiles, pulling out her phone. A moment later, I feel my phone vibrating in my pocket. When I check, there’s a message with a phone number and a name: Camila Flores.

Interesting name. I wonder where she’s from.

“How can I ever replace you, Mrs. Evans?” I ask sincerely. “I don’t think I’ve ever met someone more efficient or professional than you.”

We share a smile. She has been my trusted right hand for so long—it’s definitely going to be an adjustment, but Mrs. Evans deserves her retirement.

“Very well. What do you say, Mrs. Evans? Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?” I grab my coat from the perch by my desk.

“I would love to, young man. But don’t get any ideas—you’re not my type.”

A bark of laughter escapes me as Mrs. Evans wraps her hand around my arm.

I wake up to the merciless beep of my alarm. Even on the weekends, I’m up at five in the morning. I like to start my day working out—punching a bag or running are my preferred exercises. But when it’s zero degrees outside, I enjoy the comfort of my private gym.

Connecting my phone to the house sound system, I go through my playlists and decide on Rammstein's Greatest Hits —a compilation from one of my favorite bands of all time.

After taping my hands, I throw shadow punches as I move my head side to side and relax my shoulders.

I’m in the zone, completely focused on the one-two punches and kick combos—until a booming voice makes me jump.

“Vicente, hijo ,” my father greets me, his voice far too cheerful for someone suffering from massive jetlag.

I frown. I thought they were staying at a hotel. Why would Mrs. Evans send them to my house? And how on Earth I didn’t hear them arrive in the middle of the night?

“Jesus. I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” I say, finally snapping out of my shock as he pulls me into a firm embrace.

“Oh, well, the driver Mrs. Evans sent to pick us up tried to drop us off at the hotel, but your mother decided it’d be best if we spent more time with you. After all, you know what this visit is about.”

And there it is—Gonzalo Godoy and his one-track mind. The man is all business.

“Of course. How could I forget? It’s the only thing we’ve been talking about for the last year.”

“That’s enough, you two,” Mother interjects, her no-nonsense tone cutting through the conversation as she walks into the gym.

When she’s in mom mode , even my father gets scolded.

My mood immediately changes. There’s nothing Carla Godoy can’t fix.

“Come say hi to your mother,” she says, opening her arms wide.

Carla Godoy is class personified. Draped in a soft peach satin pantsuit, she looks both flawless and ready to take care of business.

Her chestnut hair and brown eyes are identical to mine. At five foot eight, she’s tall for a Chilean woman, her slim, poised figure just adds to her effortlessly perfect vibe.

Just like everything else about her.

I bend to hug her, and she pulls me in tight.

“When did you get so tall, Vic?”

I chuckle. “I’m thirty-five, Mother. I stopped growing over a decade ago.”

She meets my eyes and smiles, and I can’t help but smile back.

“Maybe you’ve gotten shorter with age,” I joke, instantly earning a playful swat on my arm.

“Vicente Godoy, are you calling me old? You know I don’t age. I’m like wine—I get better with age.”

I shake my head with a grin as my father steps closer to her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

“Of course you do, dear,” he says, dropping a kiss on her forehead. She practically melts in his embrace.

“Why don’t we give Vicente a few minutes so he can change?” he suggests as he leads her out of the room.

“Sounds good, I’ll be downstairs shortly,” I call after them.

“Excellent, I don’t want to have breakfast without you,” she replies as they disappear down the hall.

When I get to the dining hall, I find my father sitting at the head of the table, despite this being my house—the one I bought with my own money.

Taking a deep breath, I sit on his right, across from my mother. If there’s anything I’ve learned in business, it’s to choose my battles, and this one is not one worth fighting.

“It’s great to see you, son. It’s been a while,” Mother says with a bright smile as she pours orange juice for all of us.

“I can’t believe it’s already March. It seems like yesterday when I went to Chile to spend Christmas with you.” I give her a pointed look, and she smirks.

“You can’t blame a mother for wanting to see her adult children more often.”

I smile and take a bite of eggs. When I glance at my father, he’s focused on his breakfast.

“You’re right, I can’t. But Karina lives twenty minutes away from you. You’re lucky at least one of us decided to stay close to home,” I say.

“Yes, I love living near my only daughter, but she’s a married woman with a full-time job.”

That’s true. My little sister, Karina, married an Argentinian who fell hard and fast for her. Now they own the vineyard next to ours, and just welcomed their first child.

“So, I have to ask,” I say, changing the topic before my mother can launch into an inquisition about when I plan to settle down and give her grandkids. “How did you manage to take time away from the vineyard so close to harvest season?”

“We can’t keep doing this forever,” my father says, setting down his fork. “Your mother and I needed a break. We’re not getting any younger, and we need to enjoy our lives while we can still travel.”

I don’t like where this is going, not one bit.

“That’s why we decided to come see you and let you know that you’ll have to pack your bags. You’re headed to Alamo Peaks for a month to oversee the harvest while we visit Gabo and Isabella—his girlfriend and his best friend’s little sister—in Italy.”

I drop the silverware on the plate.

What the fuck did he just say?

“I’m a grown man, Father. A businessman. I cannot just drop everything for a month to manage the vineyard while you’re off vacationing.” I scoff, incredulous.

“You are a grown man,” he says, pointing his fork at me. “And you’ve been preparing yourself for this your entire life. If you no longer want to carry on the Godoy legacy and run the vineyard, simply let me know, and I’ll sell it. But I am done waiting for you.”

He stands, throwing his napkin onto his plate.

Before leaving the dining hall, he turns back and delivers the ultimatum I was dreading.

“If you’re not married by the end of the year, I’ll not only sell the vineyard, but I’ll also remove you as the head of the Godoy Group. Your move, son.”

“What? Why?” I ask, incredulous.

My father stops in his tracks, his back still to me. His voice is even, but there is a weight to it.

“Well, son, I believe being in a healthy relationship will help you put things into perspective. And given that I’m getting close to the point where I can no longer wait for you to make the responsible move and take charge of the vineyard, I need to give you this ultimatum.”

“And you think forcing me to get married is going to create a healthy environment in my life?”

I scoff at his ridiculousness. But before I can say anything else, he’s already gone.

I close my eyes, taking a few fortifying breaths before looking after him. He can’t force me to fucking marry.

What is this, the 1800s?

“I’m so sorry, hijo . This is not the way I had envisioned this weekend going. You know, no matter your decision, I’ll always love you,” my mother says with a sad smile before following him out.

First, my assistant retires and hires someone I didn’t veto. Now, my father shows up and lays down the biggest demand of my life. What’s next? The stock market crashing?

In an attempt to clear my head, I decide to contact my new assistant. Since I won’t be in the office on Monday, I’d better get this out of the way now and explain how I expect her to do her job.

The phone rings five times before going to voicemail. “Hello, you’ve reached Camila and Ava. Please leave a message, and we’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”

She has a daughter. It’s cute to hear her chirp in her mum’s voicemail message.

Cute? Who the fuck am I? I’m supposed to be furious with my father. I don’t have time for cute .

After the beep, I leave a message. “Camila, good morning. This is Vicente Godoy, your new boss. There are some things I need to discuss with you before Monday. Please give me a call back as soon as possible.”

Hanging up, I shake my head. I don’t have a good feeling about this woman. If she can’t even answer her phone, how the hell is she supposed to handle the demands of this job?