Chapter 2
ROMEO
Three Weeks Earlier
My father's office smells like leather and cigars, like old money.
I swear I can smell blood in the air, even though the room is immaculately clean.
I sit across from him in one of the leather wingback chairs, my posture perfect, my expression attentive.
I've been performing this role since I was old enough to understand what the Ciresa family business requires, and part of it is absolute loyalty to whatever my father wants.
Absolute willingness to do whatever he needs, or desires, or orders.
"The Riverside development is moving forward," Dante Ciresa says, spreading architectural renderings across his mahogany desk.
"We've secured the permits, the financing is in place, and the city council is on board. This is exactly the kind of legitimate operation that we need. We can launder money through it, keep the books clean, and use it for meetings when required.”
I nod, studying the plans with what I know looks like genuine interest. It’s a mixed-use development—luxury condos, retail space, a boutique hotel.
All perfectly legal and perfectly profitable.
The kind of venture that requires someone with an MBA to manage properly, someone who can navigate board meetings and investor presentations with the same ease that they navigate the darker aspects of family business.
That someone is supposed to be me.
"The MBA program starts in three weeks," my father continues, his dark eyes fixed on my face.
"Two years, Romeo. That's all I'm asking.
Two years to complete the degree, to learn the legitimate side of business management.
Then you'll be ready to take over these operations while I focus on. .. other matters."
Other matters. I’m well aware that this is yet another test, not so different from when he put a gun in my hand at sixteen and had me kill a man to prove my loyalty.
There have been plenty of tests since. I’ve proven that I can be violent, that I can be ruthless, that blood doesn’t faze me, and cruelty doesn’t affect me.
Now I need to prove that I have the business acumen his heir needs.
For years, the Ciresa family has been trying to expand its legitimate enterprises, making it less likely that our illegitimate ones will land us in federal prison. It’s a delicate balance, and it’s one that my father has drilled into me over the years.
"I understand.” My voice carries exactly the right note of dutiful commitment. I've practiced this tone since childhood, learned to modulate my words to convey emotions I don't actually feel. Respect. Dedication. Filial loyalty.
The truth is, I feel nothing.
I've always felt nothing, or close enough to nothing that the distinction doesn't matter.
I learned early on that this made me different, that other people experienced the world through some emotional lens I simply didn't possess.
So I studied them. I watched how they reacted, how they expressed joy or anger or love, and I learned to mimic it.
I became fluent in the language of human emotion without ever really speaking it myself.
It's made me very good at what I do, and a perfect heir for the Ciresa name.
Emotion is a weakness, a vulnerability that can be exploited.
I have no such weakness. I can negotiate, manipulate, threaten, or charm equally, because none of it touches me.
I'm simply playing the role that the situation requires.
The only exception is Giulia.
My sister is eight years younger than me, and she's the only person in the world who makes me feel something approximating genuine emotion.
I think it might be something approaching affection…
protectiveness, maybe. When she was born, I'd expected to feel nothing for her—this small, screaming creature that had disrupted our household.
Instead, I felt... something. Not love, exactly, but a sense of responsibility. A desire to keep her safe.
We spend another hour going over the details of the Riverside development, discussing ROI and management structures.
I ask the right questions and make the appropriate observations, playing the part of the engaged and capable heir.
By the time I leave his office, I know he's satisfied, confident even, that his son will fulfill his role, complete the MBA, take over the legitimate operations, and be everything that my father could have hoped for in an heir.
I drive to campus in my Aston Martin. It’s too expensive and flashy for a graduate student, but perfectly appropriate for a Ciresa.
The late August heat shimmers off the pavement, and the university grounds are relatively quiet.
Most students won't arrive for another week, but I've come early to familiarize myself with the campus and scout the territory before the semester begins.
I like to know what I’m up against. I like to be familiar with my territory. Being well-prepared and never caught on the back foot has served me well in every aspect of my life.
I park in the visitor lot and walk through campus, taking note of the locations of various buildings, the flow of foot traffic, the security cameras.
The business school is modern, all glass and steel, designed to impress prospective students and corporate donors.
I find my assigned classroom, and then there’s nothing else I really need to do.
So, I decide to take a more relaxed walk through the older part of campus, where the dorms and the arts and humanities buildings are.
The buildings are brick and covered in ivy, traditional and academic.
There are fewer people wandering around than on the rest of the campus, just a handful of early arrivals and summer session stragglers.
That's when I see her.
She's sitting under a massive oak tree, her back against the trunk, completely absorbed in a book.
The dappled sunlight filters through the leaves, creating patterns of light across her face, her bare arms, and the pages she's reading.
She's wearing a simple pale blue sundress, and her honey blonde hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail.
She's beautiful, but that's not what stops me in my tracks. I’ve seen so many beautiful women, even at the ripe old age of twenty-six, that they tend to blur together, but I’ve never seen a woman like this.
It's the way she's reading.
She's completely lost in whatever world the book contains, her expression shifting as her eyes dance across the page. There’s a small smile, then a slight furrow of her brow.
The unconscious way she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.
She's utterly unself-conscious, unaware of being observed, and there's something about that complete absorption that hits me like a physical blow.
It takes me a moment to register that I feel something.
For the first time in my life—except for Giulia, except for that one anomaly—I feel something genuine, immediate, and overwhelming. It's not the performative interest I show in business meetings or the calculated charm I’ve perfected in social situations. It's gut-churningly, dizzyingly real.
Desire. Fascination. Need.
It feels like a truck slamming into me, like all the air is sucked from my lungs.
I want her. Not in the abstract way I want other women, for the aesthetic pleasure of their company and the physical release they can offer me later.
I want her viscerally, in a way that I’ve never experienced before and never thought to want to.
I want to possess her, to be the focus of that complete attention she's currently giving to her book.
The intensity of it instantly alarms me. I've spent my entire life never moved by anything I can't predict or manipulate. This feeling—this sudden, visceral want—is dangerous. It's a vulnerability.
And I don't care.
I stand there, partially hidden by another tree, and watch her read.
She shifts position, drawing her knees up and resting the book against them.
She's wearing sandals, and I can see the delicate bones of her ankles, the pale pink polish on her toenails.
Everything about her seems soft and feminine, utterly unlike the hard edges of my world.
After maybe ten minutes, she checks her phone, marks her place in the book, and stands.
She stretches, then gathers her things and walks toward one of the academic buildings.
I follow at a distance, careful to stay out of sight, watching the way she moves.
I feel an inexplicable flash of jealousy at the small smile she gives to a campus security guard, another unexpected and unfamiliar emotion.
She disappears into the building—the humanities complex. I wait a few minutes, then follow, checking the directory in the lobby. The building houses several departments: English, History, Classics, Archaeology.
I leave campus and drive home to the penthouse I bought when I turned twenty-five. It's all exposed brick and floor-to-ceiling windows, leather and hard edges, masculine and expensive and impersonal. I pour myself a scotch and sit in the leather chair by the window, looking out over the city.
I should forget about her. I should focus on the MBA program, on the Riverside development, and all the carefully laid plans that constitute my future. This sudden obsession is irrational and completely unlike me.
Instead, I pull out my laptop and start searching.
It takes me less than an hour to identify her.
The university's student directory is poorly secured, and I have resources that most people don't. Her name is Savannah Beauregard, and she's a first-year graduate student in the archaeology program. She’s twenty-two years old and has an undergraduate degree from USC.
Originally from Charleston, South Carolina.
Beauregard.