CHAPTER ONE #4
In the center of the grand foyer sat a massive reception desk sculpted from solid black granite. Behind it sat two women who looked like they had been curated for an upscale fashion editorial—immaculately styled hair, sharp manicures, and pristine silk blouses.
I took a steadying breath, forced my chin up, and walked up to the counter.
"Hello," I said, fighting to keep my voice steady. "I'm here to see Vincent Placido."
The blonde receptionist glanced up from her curved dual monitors. Her gaze flicked over me—taking in my messy hair, my duffle bag, and my casual clothes—with an expression of polite, instantaneous dismissal.
"Do you have an appointment, miss?" she asked smoothly.
"No," I replied, resting my palms against the cool granite. "I don't. But I'm his daughter. If you could just call his office and let him know Guilietta is downstairs in the lobby—"
The second receptionist, a brunette with sharp, sculpted features, stopped typing. The two women exchanged a brief, telling glance. A faint, condescending smirk pulled at the brunette’s painted lips.
"Mr. Placido doesn't have a daughter," the blonde said, her tone dripping with rehearsed corporate patience. "If you're looking for employment or seeking charitable contributions, you need to submit an inquiry through our digital portal."
The blood rushed into my cheeks, hot and stinging. "I'm not looking for a job. I am his daughter. Guilietta Placido. My mother is Jiana. He spends his weekends with us in Cleveland. Just call his extension and tell him I'm here. He'll come down."
The brunette leaned back in her high-backed leather chair, crossing her arms. "Look, sweetheart.
We get people walking in off Park Avenue every single week claiming to be related to the senior partners.
Some want money, some want autographs, and some are just confused.
Mr. Placido is a very busy executive on an executive floor, and he does not take unannounced walk-ins. Especially without credentials."
"I have credentials!" I reached for my back pocket, pulling out my Ohio driver's license and slapping it down on the black counter. "Look at the last name! Placido! Look at my face! I flew all the way from Ohio this morning. Call his office!"
Neither woman looked at the plastic card. The blonde’s manicured finger moved calmly beneath the counter, and a second later, she picked up her desk phone.
"Main security desk," she said quietly into the receiver, her eyes locked on mine without a shred of empathy. "We have an unauthorized individual at reception causing a disturbance. Please escort her off the premises."
"Are you serious right now?" My voice cracked with sheer disbelief and rage. "You won't even pick up the phone to dial four numbers? I am his flesh and blood!"
Before she could answer, heavy footsteps clicked rapidly against the marble behind me. Two massive security guards—both easily six-foot-two, with broad shoulders filling out dark navy blazers and hands clasped in front of them—appeared at my sides like ghosts.
"Ma'am," the older guard said, his voice low, firm, and entirely devoid of emotion. "You need to step away from the desk and head toward the exit."
He reached out, his thick fingers moving toward my elbow.
"Don't touch me!" I snapped, jerking my arm back and spinning to face him.
My heart was pounding like a war drum in my ears, hot tears of humiliation threatening to spill over my lashes.
"Don't touch me." I jerked back, my heart pounding.
"I'm not doing anything wrong. I just want to see my father.
Do not put your hands on me. I haven't broken any laws.
I haven't threatened anyone. I just want to see my father! "
"Let's go, miss," the second guard said, shifting his body to block the path toward the elevators. "Don't make this difficult. If you don't leave peacefully, we'll have NYPD remove you for trespassing."
I looked from the guards to the receptionists, who had already gone back to typing as if I had ceased to exist.
The unfairness of it choked me. I had endured Joshua’s betrayals, Maggie’s sneering face, the suffocating terror of escaping my own home, and a flight across the country—only to be treated like a delusional panhandler at the door of my own father's workplace.
No. I wasn't running anymore.
"Fine," I said between clenched teeth, yanking my duffle strap tight. "I won't go near the desk. And I won't go near the elevators."
I turned on my heel, ignoring the guard's outstretched hand, and marched straight across the gleaming marble toward the lounge area near the floor-to-ceiling street windows.
"Ma'am, you can't loiter in the building—" the guard warned, following two paces behind.
"This is the lobby of a commercial building during business hours," I fired back, spinning around to face him with all the icy Placido defiance I didn't even know I possessed.
"I have identification, I am not disturbing your tenants, and I am sitting down. If you want to physically drag Vincent Placido’s daughter out onto Park Avenue in front of your cameras, you go right ahead and try. "
The two guards exchanged a hesitant, wary look. They evaluated my green eyes, the stubborn set of my jaw, and the absolute lack of fear in my stance. For a second, a flicker of doubt crossed the older guard’s face.
"Stay in the seating area," he muttered finally, tapping his earpiece. "If you approach the gates or harass anyone entering the building, you're out."
"Understood," I said coldly.
I dropped heavily onto the deep espresso leather sofa, letting my heavy duffle bag thud against the marble at my boots.
My hands were trembling violently. I tucked them between my knees to still them, drawing the crisp, air-conditioned scent of the lobby deep into my lungs.
If those women wouldn't dial his phone, it didn't matter. There was only one bank of private elevators leading down from the executive suites. Vincent Placido had to leave this building eventually.
And I would sit right here on this couch until he did. However long it took.
The lobby clock on the far wall ticked past four o'clock.
Four agonizing hours on that stiff leather sofa.
My ass was numb, my joints were locked, my head throbbed with a dull, sickening ache, and my stomach had knotted itself into a tight fist. My phone battery was at six percent, and I was starting to think this had been a terrible idea.
Every time someone walked past, I felt the prickle of judgment—the blonde receptionist occasionally glancing in my direction with cold superiority, the two security guards hovering like vultures by the turnstiles, clearly counting down the minutes until they could legally drag me out onto Park Avenue.
I was clutching my duffle bag to my chest, debating whether I should give up, find a cheap hotel room, and cry myself to sleep, when the soft, melodic chime of the private executive elevator echoed through the vaulted space.
The polished bronze doors slid open with a whisper.
My breath hitched in my throat.
Vincent Placido stepped out.
He was dressed in a charcoal bespoke three-piece suit that probably cost more than a semester of my college tuition, moving with that effortless, intimidating stride that made people instinctively clear a path.
In his late forties, he was still undeniably handsome—thick, dark hair silvered at the temples, the same olive skin and sharp bone structure I’d inherited, and a jawline set in stone.
For eleven years, he had been the father who flew into Cleveland for a day or two, bringing expensive gifts and warm embraces before vanishing back into his mysterious, all-consuming "corporate" life in New York.
Seeing him here, in his actual element, he looked bigger. Harder. Like a man accustomed to commanding entire armies with a flick of his wrist.
And he wasn't alone.
Walking beside him was a man who stole the air straight out of my lungs.
He was young—twenty-four, maybe twenty-five at most—and lethal.
Easily six-foot-four, with an athletic, muscular frame that strained against the immaculate tailoring of his dark suit.
He had rich espresso-brown hair, dark, hooded eyes that felt heavy with dangerous intelligence, and olive skin stretched over razor-sharp cheekbones.
There was an aura of quiet, suffocating power clinging to him—a stillness so absolute that the entire lobby seemed to tilt in his direction.
The younger man leaned down slightly, saying something in a low baritone that didn't carry across the marble, and my father let out a rare, genuine laugh, clapping him on the shoulder with familiar respect.
The sheer sight of my father shattered whatever dam of composure I had left. The three days of suffocating silence in Cleveland, Joshua’s pounding on my door, Maggie’s sneering face, the humiliating flight—it all rose into my throat like bile.
I stood up, my knees trembling violently.
"Dad!"
My voice cracked across the cavernous lobby, loud and desperate.
Vincent’s head snapped toward me. In the span of a single heartbeat, the easy smile vanished from his face, replaced by confusion, then shock, and finally an expression of pure, unadulterated horror in the space of a heartbeat.
"Guilietta?" he breathed, his voice barely a rasp.
I didn't wait. I dropped my pride and ran toward him, my boots squeaking frantically against the marble floor, despite everything—despite the shock on his face and the questions I knew were coming—he caught me in a tight hug, burying his face into my chestnut hair, his familiar scent of sandalwood, cedar, and expensive tobacco washing over me.
The two security guards instantly stepped forward to intercept me, but my father’s hand shot up in a savage, cutting motion that froze them dead in their tracks.
"Dad," I sobbed, clutching the fabric of his wool jacket in white-knuckled fists. "Dad, I'm sorry..."