Chapter 1
ONE
ENRICO FERRARA
It was five in the morning when I finally gave up on the idea of sleeping.
For the fourth consecutive night, sleep had abandoned me. It was that damn time of year again.
I had tossed and turned for hours, restless, hunted by thoughts that should no longer exist—blurred images of a past I would rather erase entirely.
I got out of bed abruptly, irritation coiling tight in my chest, and stared at my reflection in the mirror. Dark circles framed my tired eyes, betraying me to the world. I exhaled sharply, frustrated.
Crossing the room, I stopped in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows of my penthouse.
The city stretched beneath me, slowly waking under a sky still wrapped in darkness.
Down below, S?o Paulo was quiet for a few fleeting hours, as if the silence were nothing more than a temporary ceasefire before another chaotic day.
Chaotic days were the only ones I knew.
And the only ones I accepted.
I changed quickly—dark T-shirt, athletic pants—and headed straight for my private gym. Exhaustive training was the only way I had found to temporarily shut my mind off, to silence the voices that insisted on whispering the same things, every single time this season approached.
Minutes later, I was running on the treadmill, gradually increasing the speed until every muscle in my body began to protest. I pushed through it anyway—sweating, breath ragged, stubbornly clinging to the desperate attempt to forget.
Each step felt like an effort to outrun something that constantly followed me.
Something I would never admit to anyone.
Five years—and I could still feel the weight of that look on me.
I increased the speed again, challenging my own limits, trying to replace unwanted emotion with physical pain and exhaustion.
Five years.
Five years since the day I almost lost everything. Since I nearly allowed a woman—one single woman—to destroy everything I had built.
Valentina.
Even now, just thinking her name felt like a violation of my thoughts. A weakness I could no longer afford. She had been the greatest mistake of my life, a stain I would do anything to erase completely. My jaw tightened involuntarily as the tension turned into physical pain.
Five years, and still—
When I finally stopped, nearly an hour later, my muscles burned and my breathing was uneven, but my mind was silent. That was exactly how it needed to be.
A cold, bracing shower followed. Then the suit—dark, perfectly tailored, as always. As I adjusted the tie around my neck, I studied my reflection.
There he was again.
Enrico Ferrara. Impeccable. Strong. Untouchable.
The man known for being unshakable. The CEO nothing could bring down.
It was a little past six-thirty when I left my bedroom. My housekeeper would have prepared breakfast exactly the way I liked it: strong coffee and fruit cut with near-surgical precision.
But when I walked into the kitchen, what I saw nearly convinced me the lack of sleep had finally caused hallucinations.
Sitting comfortably at my kitchen table—eating a generous plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast, my favorite coffee mug in his hand—was André.
My brother.
“Well, look who finally decided to show up,” he greeted me, flashing a wide grin as he lifted my mug in a mock toast. “I thought you were going to spend the entire day playing superhero on the treadmill.”
I crossed my arms over my chest, fixing him with an impatient stare.
“How the hell did you get in here?”
He shrugged, amused, pointing a strip of bacon at me.
“Your housekeeper adores me. And I still have keys to your place. You didn’t forget I’m your brother, did you?” he asked, theatrically offended—though his eyes sparkled with that familiar, infuriating amusement.
I sighed, briefly closing my eyes to summon patience.
“Unfortunately, I couldn’t forget that even if I tried.”
André laughed loudly, throwing his head back, clearly enjoying my irritation. When he finally composed himself, he gestured to the empty chair beside him.
“Sit. Let’s talk before you put on that arrogant, controlling CEO mask.”
“It’s not a mask,” I replied coldly, moving closer. “And you know that.”
He chuckled again, shaking his head.
“You know what I think you really need? A vacation. Somewhere quiet. Far away from this concrete jungle. Maybe a charming little town in the countryside.”
I studied him for a moment, trying to decipher the apparently innocent expression. With André, it was never clear where the joke ended and the intention began.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I muttered, pulling out the chair and finally sitting down.
He looked at me more carefully now, his smile fading slightly as his gaze assessed my face with uncomfortable accuracy.
“You look terrible. When was the last time you actually slept?”
I broke eye contact, grabbing a clean mug and filling it with coffee.
“Sleep is overrated. And I have an entire company to run.”
“Oh yes. Of course. Your company,” André agreed with mock solemnity, resting his chin in his hands as he studied me. “The Ferrara empire—far more important than your health, sanity, or happiness. Naturally.”
I frowned, taking a bitter sip of coffee.
“I don’t need a lecture, André.”
“Of course you do,” he shot back immediately. “I’m your brother. It’s my job to annoy you until you listen to some common sense.”
I exhaled sharply, setting the mug down harder than necessary.
“What do you want?”
André smiled, victorious, clearly pleased to have my full attention.
“I came to talk about business, but that can wait. First, I want to know how you’re really doing, Enrico. Don’t lie to me.”
For a brief moment, I almost told him the truth.
That I was exhausted. That every day I fought a shadow from the past. That there were nights I couldn’t even close my eyes without seeing Valentina standing at that altar.
I crushed the thought immediately.
“I’m perfectly fine,” I said firmly, fixing André with my coldest, most final stare. “Now stop acting like my therapist and start acting like my lawyer. You said you came to talk business. So talk.”
André sighed, shaking his head in feigned disappointment.
“You really are impossible, you know that?”
“So I’ve been told,” I muttered, returning my attention to the coffee while trying to ignore the discomfort curling in my chest.
He watched me silently for a few seconds. I knew exactly what he was thinking.
But I couldn’t give in. Not even to him.
“Very well, then,” André said at last, taking a final sip of coffee. “Since you’re so desperate to talk about work, let’s talk about your board meeting today.”
I nodded, relieved to reclaim control of the conversation.
“And what is there to talk about? Everything’s already settled.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure, Enrico,” André replied, unexpectedly serious now, his gaze sharp. “They have expectations.”
I dismissed the concern without hesitation. Problems would always exist—but none of them would ever be big enough to destabilize me again.
Nothing I couldn’t control.
“Let them,” I said coolly. “As long as they align with mine.”
***
Hours later, S?o Paulo spread beneath my feet like a carpet of golden lights.
From my office on the fortieth floor of one of the most imposing buildings on Avenida Paulista, everything below looked small. Distant. Insignificant.
That was precisely why I liked this space. A constant reminder of the position I had earned—after fighting hard for every inch of it.
“The meeting with the international investors begins in twenty minutes, Mr. Ferrara.”
Estela’s voice—my personal assistant—cut through the pristine silence, pulling me from my thoughts. I glanced over my shoulder and gave a short nod.
“Make sure everything is ready. I don’t want delays or distractions.”
“Yes, sir.”
She left as discreetly as she had entered. Estela had worked with me for three years and knew exactly how I liked things done: with absolute efficiency, no questions, no interference.
Everything under control.
Just the way I preferred it.
I turned my gaze back to the illuminated horizon and inhaled slowly. The sharp vibration of my phone on the desk snapped me out of the shadows again. A quick glance at the caller ID made my posture straighten automatically.
Eloá Ferrara.
My grandmother.
The only person in the world I still listened to.
“Good evening, Nonna,” I answered immediately.
“I hope you’re prepared for today,” her voice came through sharp and direct, leaving no room for pleasantries. Eloá had never been one for unnecessary sentiment. She had raised me the same way—efficient and cold.
“Always,” I replied simply.
“Good. We can’t afford more mistakes, Enrico. Your reputation is still your greatest asset. Don’t forget that.”
A cold prickle ran down my spine, but I kept my tone neutral.
“I don’t forget anything.”
“I certainly hope not. Your past distraction nearly cost us too much. An unsuitable woman can destroy an entire empire. Do not allow that to happen again.”
“It won’t,” I said firmly.
Eloá exhaled on the other end of the line, clearly satisfied.
“I’ll be closely monitoring the negotiations. I expect results—not excuses.”
“You’ll have them.”
She ended the call without a goodbye. No surprise there. Eloá always ended conversations on her own terms, without waiting for permission or response. It was a dynamic she had established in my childhood—one I accepted not only out of respect, but out of absolute trust.
No matter how cold, harsh, or inflexible she was, I knew she always had my best interests in mind.
Even when I didn’t fully understand them.
I loosened my tie with a tired breath and returned to my desk. Stacks of documents were perfectly aligned—financial reports, international contracts—everything signaling an empire in expansion.
But my attention caught on a single sheet buried among the files.
A brief note about a project still in its early stages, yet crucial to our next moves. Eloá insisted it would be a major milestone for us in the country. I had neither the time nor the interest for irrelevant details at the moment.
We had competent people to handle it without my immediate involvement.
I picked up the paper, glanced at it without interest, then flipped it over, discarding it from my attention. Pressing the intercom button on my desk, I spoke curtly.
“Estela?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Ask Cláudio for the Dreamland report for the meeting.”
“Oh… the next one?” she asked hesitantly.
I clenched my teeth.
“Which other one would that be, Estela?” I snapped.
“Of course, Mr. Ferrara,” she replied quickly.
“Inform everyone I’ll be in the conference room in five minutes,” I added coldly. “And I don’t expect to wait for anyone.”
I ended the call before she could respond.