Chapter Twenty
Elsa
The click of the door echoes in the otherwise quiet room.
For a second, I don’t move. Neither does he. The room feels smaller with only the two of us in it, as if the walls shifted inward when Caterina left.
“This—” My voice comes out even, professional, almost bored. I clear my throat like it’s nothing. “On second thought, I can get the tour next time.”
I don’t wait for an answer. I turn toward the door because leaving is the only thing that makes sense. Because if I stay, something in me is going to crack—anger or memory or the humiliating fact that my body still knows his.
My fingers close around the handle.
“Elsa.”
His voice says my name like it belongs in his mouth. A gentle caress that I can practically feel.
I freeze with my hand on the door, my pulse jumping so hard it stings. I don’t turn around yet. I don’t trust my face if I do.
I swallow once, slowly.
Then I let my hand fall from the handle and stay exactly where I am, caught between the door and the sound of his voice.
“What,” I ask, and I keep my back to him because it’s the only way I can keep my voice level, “do you want, Antonio?”
A beat of silence.
I hear him shift—one soft step on the carpet—then stop again, like he’s thinking better of getting closer.
“Not this,” he says quietly. “Not… ambushing you.”
I laugh once, sharp and humorless, the sound scraping my throat. “And yet here we are.”
Another pause.
“Caterina,” he says, and the words hit like a tired refrain, like he’s been saying them to himself all weekend. “She did this. She ambushed me, too.”
My jaw tightens. My hand curls around the handle of my bag until it digs into my palm.
“I’m supposed to uh…” He clears his throat.
Finally, I turn around.
“What?” I say bitterly. “Charm me? Try to get me on your side? Convince me to approve the acquisition? Haven’t you done enough of that?”
His face tightens, and for the first time all morning, the polish cracks—just enough to show something raw underneath it.
“No,” he says, frustrated.
I lift my brows. “No? What, there’s more? What was next?” I throw my arms out and let them fall to my sides helplessly. “Date me? Marry me? Have babies with me? Would that get you the signature you want?”
The words taste like acid the moment they leave my mouth, but I don’t take them back. I can’t. Not when my chest is tight, and my stomach is churning, and he’s standing there looking at me like I’m a mess he doesn’t know how to clean up.
His eyes flare—anger, yes, but something else too. Something that looks like it hurts.
“Stop,” he says, sharply. “Don’t—”
“Don’t what?” I cut in, my voice rising. “Don’t say it out loud? Don’t make it ugly? Because it is ugly, Antonio.”
“Elsa, you have to listen to me.” He takes a step forward. “You have to believe me when I say I didn’t know. You want to call it a coincidence, then call it one. But I did not know.”
Before I can turn away, he takes me by the arms and holds me firmly in place.
“The truth,” he says, “is that you walked into that room on Friday night, and everything inside me reacted. It was like you reached inside me and grabbed something and I haven’t been able to catch my breath since.”
His grip is firm, but it’s not trapping, just keeping me from bolting. I can feel the heat of his hands through my sleeves, and it makes my skin prickle with betrayal all over again.
“I tried to be normal about it,” he says, jaw tight, eyes locked on mine. “I tried to do the thing I always do—smile, flirt, charm, move on. But…”
His hands flex on my arms.
“The more time I spent with you, the stronger the hold you had.”
His voice drops on the last word, as if it costs him something to say it. Like he hates the vulnerability as much as I do.
“The only time Northstar was on my mind after I saw you that night,” he says, and there’s a desperate insistence, “was ‘thank God Olivia took those Northstar assholes on a tour and set me free.’ They told me you weren’t even coming, and they didn’t use your first name.
Nilsson. That’s all I knew. And let me tell you, dolcezza, you were not what I was picturing. ”
I want to believe him. I do. It’s not just because my whole body wants me to, but because of the look on his face right now. And the look on his face on Saturday when I accused him. The look of genuine shock and disbelief, the anger and bitterness.
It all felt so real.
And if this were anyone else, I would believe them because that would be some damn good acting. But I’ve heard rumors about the Contis.
Rumors that tell me he might very well be able to pull off such damn good acting.
And rumors that tell me sleeping with someone to make a deal isn’t unheard of for them.
“Can you be honest with me?” I whisper.
“I am,” he says earnestly. “More honest than I’ve ever been with anyone.”
“Have you ever slept with someone to close a deal?” I ask.
I see the answer on his face before he opens his mouth. I pull out of his arms, but he tightens his hold.
“Let go of me,” I say.
“That’s not a simple answer, Elsa,” he says.
“Yes, it is. Have you ever slept with someone to close a deal? Yes or no?” I snap. “If you’re not willing to be honest with me, then we’re done here.”
“Fine, honesty,” he says, finally dropping my arms, leaving me feeling suddenly cold.
I cross my arms.
“When I was much younger,” he says. “Yes.”
For a second, I can’t hear anything except the rush of blood in my ears, hot and loud, like my body is trying to drown out the words.
I swallow with a lot of difficulty.
“What’s ‘much younger’?” My voice comes out hoarse.
He doesn't flinch, but something in him seems like it’s bracing for impact.
“Eighteen, nineteen. The kind of stupid that thinks with its dick and thinks it’s too clever to be affected.”
He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture so full of frustration it looks like he wants to pull the strands right out of his scalp.
“The kind of stupid that gets someone hurt before it learns a single goddamn thing about how the world actually works.”
A beat of silence hangs between us, thick and ugly. He doesn't look away.
“Am I proud of it?” he asks. “No. Is it something I sit around and regret? No. I did what I did, and I learned my lesson."
I look away from him, toward the window, toward the impersonal cityscape. The world outside is just glass and steel, orderly and distant.
"Have you?" I ask quietly, turning back to him. "Learned your lesson?"
His jaw works for a second. A muscle ticks in his cheek. He looks at me like I’m holding a knife to his throat.
“More than you know,” he says, and the words are heavy.
"And you haven't done it since?" I ask.
"Not in over twenty-five years," he says.
I bite my bottom lip as I consider him.
“Look.” He sighs. “I’m not going to sit here and lie to you and tell you I’ve never slept with someone who I’m also trying to do business with. It’s happened, but on a personal level. Not to get something out of it. I don’t have a problem mixing business and pleasure when there isn’t a conflict.”
He takes a step closer again. “What I have a problem with is letting my family down. I have a problem with jeopardizing this deal for them because I did something without knowing all the facts."
My throat is tight. My arms are crossed so tightly over my chest that it’s starting to ache.
“So this is about protecting your family, trying to make sure I don't reject the acquisition on principle," I say.
"It's about my family. And you," he says, and there's a raw honesty in his voice that makes my stomach clench.
“Because the thought of you walking away—of you thinking this was all some calculated play—makes me want to put my fist through a goddamn window.
But the thought of this deal falling apart and Be— And somebody else getting Northstar when my family worked so hard for this deal, it makes me sick. "
It was a quick slip, almost imperceptible, but was he about to say Bellandi?
How would he know we've also been talking to Bellandi Operations?
He wouldn't. We've kept it very under wraps.
I focus back on what he's saying.
"I'm not rejecting the deal on principle," I say. "I'm rejecting it because you're here and I don't know if I can do my job if you're in the room."
"I can remove myself from the negotiations," he says immediately. "I can step back. I can tell them— I don't know. I'll think of something."
He says it like it's the easiest thing in the world. Like he's willing to throw away his role, his leverage, for me.
And for a second, I believe him.
I shake my head.
His hand comes up, and after a moment of hesitation, he cups my cheek. I let him, just for a second, before I pull away.
I’m trying to be strong here, and his touching me isn’t helping.
"Elsa," he murmurs, "don't throw away something good for nothing."
I look at him, really look at him. At the exhaustion in his eyes, at the plea in his voice, at the raw vulnerability he’s trying so hard to hide.
And I see that he’s not just trying to save a deal.
He's trying to save this.
Whatever this is between us.
It's a stupid, reckless, impossible thing. But it's there.
"Look, Antonio, even if I believe you," I say, my voice shaking slightly, my composure held together by a thread, “even if you didn’t know who I was, it doesn’t change anything.”
“Why not?” he asks, and he looks genuinely confused. Like he can’t see the gaping hole I’m standing in front of. “If I didn’t know, then it wasn’t a setup. It was just… two people who wanted each other.”
“I am the due diligence lead on this acquisition, Antonio,” I say, the words feeling like poison in my mouth. “I am the one who has to give the final recommendation. The one who can make or break this deal.”
He looks at me, the pieces finally clicking into place.
I see it in the way the tension goes out of him, a sudden, sagging weight that makes him look tired.
"Ah," he says, and it's not a victory, not a celebration, not a "gotcha." It's a slow, dawning understanding of what a fucking disaster this is.
"How can I be objective? How can I be the ethical voice when I'm compromised, Antonio?
" I say. "How can I look them in the eye and tell them this is a good idea when even I don't know if I'm thinking clearly?
When I'm thinking about you instead of what's best for the company?
And how would they trust my recommendation if they found out?
If they knew I slept with the buyer? It doesn't matter why I did it. It just matters that I did."
He opens his mouth, then closes it.
He has no answer for that.
Neither do I.
"It's not just a conflict of interest," I say, and my voice is so quiet it's almost a whisper. "It's a career-ending mistake. A fireable offense. And who would hire me after that? This is a small world, Antonio. People talk. And people remember."
I look away, toward the dark screen on the wall, the silent witness to this whole, sordid mess.
"And I can't," I say, and the words are so painful I can barely get them out. "I can't throw away my career for a man I spent one night with."
My composure finally cracks, a single tear escaping and tracing a path down my cheek.
I quickly wipe it away, angry at myself for this weakness, for this crack in my armor.
He takes another step toward me, closing the small distance between us, and before I can step back, he gently takes my face in his hands.
He brings my face to his and kisses me.
I make a weak sound of protest.
"One more," he murmurs against my lips. "One more and I'll let you go."
I don't know if it's the desperation in his voice or the fact that I'm so tired of fighting, but I stop struggling. I let him kiss me. I let him deepen the kiss, and I feel a fresh wave of tears sting my eyes as I kiss him back.
It's not the kiss of a predator claiming his prize. It's not the kiss of a man trying to close a deal. It's a sad, desperate, achingly tender kiss. A goodbye kiss. And I hate myself for the fact that a part of me doesn't want it to end.
A part of me wants to melt into him and forget everything else. So I do, for just one moment. I gather his shirt in my fingers and open to him. A soft moan escapes my throat as his tongue tangles with mine.
I’m so weak for him. I was so weak for him from the beginning. I was weak from the moment he looked at me at that party, from the moment I heard his voice in my ear, from the moment he smiled at me. I didn’t stand a chance.
I sob into his mouth, a ragged, broken sound. And he just holds me tighter, pouring everything he has into this one last kiss. Everything he's not saying. Everything he can't say.
I pull away, my chest heaving, my face wet with tears. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I can’t do this anymore.
He rests his forehead against mine, his thumbs stroking my cheeks, wiping away the tears I didn't even realize were still falling.
"This is so stupid," I choke out, my voice breaking. "I don't even know why I'm crying." I press my lips to his again and murmur, "I barely know you." Another deep, consuming kiss. "I barely know you, and it feels like I'm losing everything."
"You're not losing anything, dolcezza," he says, his voice thick with emotion. "You're choosing yourself."
He's right. I know he's right. But it doesn't feel that way. It feels like I'm being torn in two. One half of me wants to run and never look back. The other half wants to stay here, in this room, in his arms, and let the world burn down around us.
"I'm so mad at you," I say between kisses. "I'm so mad at you for doing this to me."
"I know," he murmurs against my lips. "I'm mad at me, too."
I press my lips firmly to his again, and it's a frantic, desperate thing.
I'm trying to memorize the way he tastes, the way he feels, the way he makes my heart feel like it's going to beat right out of my chest. I'm trying to commit it all to memory because I know, with a certainty that feels like a physical blow, that this is it.
This is the last time.
This has to be the last time.
Because if I let this happen again, I know I won't be strong enough to walk away a second time.
I pull away and bury my face in his shirt. I breathe in his scent—spicy and intoxicating—and it makes my head spin. He holds me, his arms wrapped around me, his chin resting on my head, and for a few seconds, I let myself believe that this is real. That this can last.
But it can't.
And I know it.
I push away from him, my hands flat on his chest, creating a space between us that feels like a chasm. "I can't do this," I say, my voice shaking. "I can't. I have to go."
I turn and practically run for the door, not daring to look back. He doesn’t call my name.