Antonio (The Conti Family #5)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Antonio

The mirror doesn’t lie, but it also doesn’t tell the whole truth.

Under the soft bathroom light, I look like the Antonio everyone expects—tailored suit, crisp white shirt, hair put in place with the kind of care that reads as effortless. The kind of face people trust before I’ve earned the right.

The kind of body that makes men decide I’m a problem and women decide I’m a solution.

I lift my arm to adjust the cuff and the quick twinge in my side makes my jaw lock.

I hold still for a beat, eyes locked on my own in the glass. Then I make the movement again, slower. Controlled.

Six months. Just about.

Six months since the gunshot.

Not a graze. Not a dramatic little movie wound you can shrug off for the story. A bullet that sent me to the operating room and nearly took me out. It took muscle. It took time. It took a piece of my patience that I haven’t gotten back.

I roll my shoulder once, carefully. The scar is mostly hidden under the shirt, but I know it’s there. I know how the skin pulls when I stretch too far. I know which angle makes it ache and beg for attention.

Rehab has been a lesson I didn’t ask for. A schedule. Reps. Limits. Sleep when my mind wants to run. Rest when my pride wants to prove something. People treating me like I’m made of glass when I’m not. People treating me like I’m fine when I’m not.

The only thing worse than being weak is being watched while you pretend you aren’t.

Tonight, nobody is watching that part.

Tonight is The Regent Club’s gala—our gala, our statement, our velvet-gloved promise to Atlantic City that we didn’t build a casino and hotel to play small. We built it to own the room. And I’m here because owning the room is what I do.

I lean closer to the mirror and straighten my tie knot. Perfect. Not too tight, not too casual. I can’t afford either.

I exhale through my nose, slow, quiet, and set my posture. Shoulders back. Chest open. Weight balanced. The pain gets its single acknowledgment and nothing more.

A knock taps the door.

“Antonio?” Roberto’s voice. “You good?”

“I’m gorgeous,” I call back, voice light.

The door opens, and Roberto steps in.

He looks sharp in black tie, exactly what you’d expect from the man who can walk into a gala or courtroom and command both rooms equally.

His eyes flick to my side.

I don’t flinch. I don’t give him anything.

He studies my face instead. “You sure you want to work the floor tonight?”

I pick up my cuff links, fasten them with my right hand first, then the left, keeping the movements smooth. “Do I look like I’m going to sit upstairs and eat canapés alone?”

Roberto’s mouth pulls into something that almost counts as a smile. “You’d hate it.”

“I’d set something on fire out of boredom.”

He crosses his arms. “It’s not boredom I’m worried about.”

I meet his gaze in the mirror. “I’m not fragile.”

“I didn’t say you were fragile.”

“You implied it.”

He holds the look, unbothered. Roberto’s never been the type to dance around a point. “I’m implying you’ve been pushing too hard. Nico mentioned your therapy schedule. He said you added weights last week.”

“Nico talks too much.”

“He’s worried.”

“I’m fine.”

Roberto gives me a look that says he has cross-examined better liars. “Tonight matters. Keep it polite. Keep your temper in your pocket.”

“My temper doesn’t come out unless someone invites it.”

“You invite it,” he says, flat.

That earns him a real smile. “That’s why you love me.”

“Luca loves you,” Roberto corrects. “I tolerate you.”

“Same thing,” I say, and adjust the line of my jacket, smoothing it over my ribs.

Roberto’s gaze dips down again, then away. He’s not sentimental, but he’s not blind. He was there in the hospital after I got hit. He waited for hours for news of whether I lived or died.

He clears his throat. “Northstar’s people are already downstairs. The CEO’s there. A couple of board members. Their general counsel. They’re… cautious.”

“Good,” I say. “Cautious people leave trails. Trails can be followed.”

Roberto raises a brow. “Don’t do the thing where you make everyone feel like you’re hunting them.”

I button my jacket. “That’s your job.”

“That’s my job in court,” he says. “Tonight, your job is to make them feel safe.”

I step away from the mirror, and the shoulder gives me another quick bite, like it’s reminding me it exists. I ignore it.

“I was shot, Roberto, not brained,” I tell him, a little impatient. “I know my job. I always have.”

He holds his hands, palms out. Truce.

I let it go. “Come on. You’re going to introduce me, right? Make me sound respectable?”

“Try being respectable,” he says, then turns toward the door. “And Antonio?”

“Yeah.”

His tone shifts, quieter. “We worry because we… tolerate you.”

I laugh. “I know.”

Roberto nods once, satisfied, and walks out.

When the door clicks shut, I look at myself one last time.

Then I put my charming face on.

It isn’t a mask, exactly. It’s a tool. It’s a weapon that doesn’t leave bruises.

I soften the eyes. I lift the corners of my mouth. I set my expression in a way that says I’m listening. People love that.

I step out of the suite and into the hallway. The Regent Club’s upper floor is quiet, thick carpeting swallowing sound. Two security men stand at the elevator, suits tight over broad shoulders, earpieces in place. They nod when they see me.

“Evening, Mr. Conti.”

“Evening,” I return, easily.

The elevator ride down is short. The doors open onto noise and light and movement. The gala is already in full swing.

The Regent Club looks the way money is supposed to feel—warm lighting, polished stone, glass that catches reflections.

There’s a long bar with bartenders in black vests moving fast, trays of champagne circulating with practiced grace.

Music flows under the conversation, just loud enough to make people lean closer.

A cluster of guests turns as I step out. Recognition flashes across a few faces—people who have been told my name, people who have been told what I can do for them, people who have been told not to get too close.

I give them the smile anyway. The smile is free. Until it isn’t.

I move into the crowd as if I belong there, because I do.

A hand touches my elbow. Caterina.

She looks impeccable, as always, hair smooth, dressed sharply in the kind of way that says she can calculate your balance sheet while she’s sipping champagne. Luca’s daughter, but more than that: a Conti with her own spine.

“You’re late,” she says.

“I’m right on time,” I tell her.

Her gaze flicks to my torso as if she can see through the fabric. “How’s it feeling?”

“Like it wants attention.”

“Don’t give it any.”

“Always good advice,” I say, and I mean it.

She nods toward the room. “Northstar’s people are over there. By the sculpture. The tall guy in the navy tux is the CEO. Malcolm Crane.”

“Crane,” I repeat, filing it away. “Board?”

“Two of them,” she says. “Eleanor Pierce and David Halbrook. Counsel is with them.”

“Who’s driving the numbers?” I ask.

Caterina’s mouth twitches. “You’re going to love this. Their due diligence lead has final internal sign-off for acquisitions like this.”

“Smart company,” I say.

“Nilsson.”

“Nilsson,” I repeat, tasting it. I picture a small man with thinning hair and a weaselly voice.

Caterina watches my face. She knows me too well. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“The thing where you decide you can win someone by sheer force of personality.”

“I can,” I say calmly.

“You can win attention,” she corrects. “You can win admiration. You can win people who want something from you. But Nilsson isn’t like the others.”

“Good,” I say again, because it’s still true.

Caterina’s expression tightens. “She’s ethical—”

“Oh, she,” I say, delighted. The image in my mind shifts from the weaselly man to a stout woman, shrill voice, and a secret desire to be romanced.

“Don’t make assumptions,” Caterina warns. “I looked into her. She’s been the reason at least two acquisitions didn’t happen in the last three years. Not because she wanted more money. Because she said no. She found issues, and she wouldn’t sign off.”

I feel the familiar spark—interest sharpened into focus.

“And Northstar lets a financial executive have that much power and influence?” I ask.

“They do,” Caterina says. “She’s very well-educated. Numbers-brained. And they trust her.”

“Or they hide behind her,” I say.

“That too,” Caterina agrees. “But either way, she’s a gate.”

A gate. A lock. The one point the whole deal can pivot on.

“Is she here?” I ask, looking around.

“I’m not sure,” Caterina says.

Roberto appears beside us, as if summoned. He looks from Caterina to me. “Ready?”

“Always,” I tell him.

Caterina touches my forearm lightly—quick, grounding, a family gesture. “Be nice.”

I give her a look that says I’m always nice.

She snorts, unconvinced, and disappears into the crowd like she has an entire business to run. Which I guess she does.

Roberto leads, and I follow, moving toward the sculpture she indicated. As we approach, the Northstar group turns, attention sharpening. CEO first, then the board members, then counsel—each of them scanning, assessing, deciding.

The CEO is tall, silver at the temples, confident in the way corporate men get when they’ve had success and assume it’s permanent. Only the smartest realize that nothing is permanent.

Roberto reaches them first. “Mr. Crane,” he says, extending his hand. “Roberto Conti. Thank you for coming tonight.”

“Mr. Conti,” Crane replies, taking it. “Your club is impressive.”

“Thank you,” Roberto says. “I wanted you to see the standard we expect to maintain.”

Roberto turns slightly, and that’s my cue.

“And this is Antonio Conti,” he says, voice smooth. “My brother. He’s leading our outreach on this acquisition.”

Crane’s eyes land on me. A quick scan. The suit. The shoulders. The confidence. He gives me the polished smile of a man used to meeting other men he might need.

“Mr. Conti,” he says.