Chapter 3
THREE
ENRICO FERRARA
The silence in the conference room was almost tangible as I paced slowly around the massive oval table. Ten pairs of attentive eyes followed me, waiting for my assessment of the latest results from Ferrara Group’s international hospitality division.
I wasn’t satisfied.
Not even close.
“Do you genuinely believe these numbers are acceptable?” I asked in a low voice that was dangerously calm, stopping behind the chair reserved exclusively for me. My hand settled on the backrest with light pressure as I studied each face around the table—one by one.
“We achieved five percent growth, Mr. Ferrara. It’s within expectations…” Fernando Albuquerque, the director responsible for the hotel division, began.
I raised one eyebrow, cutting him off with a cold look.
“Within expectations?” My tone didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. “I expected at least double that, Fernando. Or was I not clear enough when we set our targets at the beginning of the quarter?”
Fernando swallowed hard, his gaze dropping.
“Perhaps… perhaps not as clear as I assumed, sir.”
A heavy silence settled for several seconds. My expression didn’t change, but the man in front of me visibly paled, realizing immediately what he’d just said.
“Let me be absolutely clear now, then,” I continued, precise and controlled.
“I don’t accept average results. I don’t accept excuses.
I don’t accept mediocrity. We are Ferrara—not some small-town inn.
You have one month to turn these numbers around, or I will reevaluate who remains on my executive team. ”
I watched the subtle reactions with practiced attention. Some lowered their eyes immediately. Others nodded almost imperceptibly. No one dared argue.
That was exactly how it should be.
“Understood?” I asked, finally taking my seat at the head of the table with absolute calm.
“Yes, Mr. Ferrara,” they answered almost in unison.
“Good. You may go.”
They stood at once, collecting their materials with quick, almost mechanical efficiency. I watched them file out one by one in silence, feeling that familiar satisfaction of total control settle over me again.
I wasn’t there to make friends.
I was there to produce results.
And they knew it.
The moment the door clicked shut behind the last executive, I allowed myself the smallest release of tension, exhaling a short, irritated breath. The sleepless nights were taking their toll, and my impatience was becoming obvious—even to me.
I rolled my neck, feeling the discreet crack of vertebrae, when a light knock at the door stole my brief rest.
“Come in,” I ordered without looking up.
The door opened, and the familiar scent of feminine perfume immediately filled the room. I lifted my eyes with deliberate slowness—and found Estela standing there, arms loaded with folders and documents.
“I’m here to collect the reports from the meeting, Mr. Ferrara,” she said, stepping closer.
Estela was young, efficient, and attractive. A combination I’d noticed months ago—on a night when I nearly gave in, during an unusually weak moment.
A mistake that would not repeat itself.
“They’re here,” I indicated curtly, pushing the folders across the desk toward her.
Estela approached with careful steps, but when she reached the desk, her fingers brushed mine—intentionally.
I noticed the deliberate movement, the subtle, suggestive smile she aimed in my direction.
“Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Ferrara?” Her tone was almost provocative as she leaned in closer than professionalism allowed.
I kept my expression impassive, deliberately ignoring the gesture as I withdrew my hands from hers.
“I don’t need anything else, Estela. Take the documents. And make sure my schedule is organized. I have too many obligations left to handle today.”
The disappointment that crossed her faceU face didn’t escape me. Her lips pressed together as she gathered the folders quickly, embarrassed by my indifference.
“Of course, Mr. Ferrara,” she replied, her voice stripped of its earlier confidence.
I watched in silence as she left, closing the door behind her with exaggerated care. I drew in a breath, irritated.
Mixing business with pleasure was a mistake.
A mistake that could threaten the absolute order I valued above everything.
Maybe it was time to transfer her to another department. I didn’t need distractions—especially now, with too much at stake.
I stood, straightening my dark jacket. The watch on my wrist made it clear my day was far from over—and I had no time to waste on inconveniences.
Or on mistakes I hadn’t even made.
The rest of the day dragged in excruciating slow motion. Back-to-back meetings. Endless financial reviews. A growing irritation that stacked minute by minute.
By the time I ended the last meeting, it was past nine at night. My head throbbed, every pulse a reminder of the sleep I would never get back.
As I locked my office, I took in the empty corridors. Everyone had left hours ago, leaving behind nothing but an absolute, uncomfortable silence.
I preferred it that way.
Fewer people. Fewer interruptions. Fewer expectations.
Fewer eyes.
The elevator carried me down to the underground garage, where my driver waited—patient, as always. He opened the rear door and I slid inside without a word. Minutes later we were moving through the crowded streets toward my last obligation of the night.
A charity dinner sponsored by Ferrara Group—one of those mandatory, protocol-heavy events I despised, but attended for purely strategic reasons.
A public image of power was also sustained by calculated gestures, however empty and irritating they were.
When the car stopped in front of the luxury hotel hosting the event, I inhaled and put on my usual mask—the one of the successful man who was always in control.
A mask I wore perfectly.
I’d been practicing since I was very young.
The double doors were opened for me by impeccably trained staff, and moments later I was immersed in the main ballroom—filled with guests wearing their finest clothes and their most polished fake smiles.
I moved through the space, greeting important people with short handshakes and cool, professional eye contact. I did exactly what was expected of me.
After nearly an hour of superficial interaction, I found a more secluded table reserved strategically for me. Perfect. Present without having to participate.
A skill I valued.
“Good evening, Mr. Ferrara.” A soft female voice appeared at my side just as I tried to take my first sip of wine.
I turned and found Cristina Brand?o—beautiful, perfectly made up, the youngest daughter of one of our biggest investors. Her discreet smile and interested gaze left no doubt about her intentions.
It happened often at these events.
And I dismissed it the same way every time—politely, coldly.
“Good evening, Cristina,” I replied, keeping my expression neutral.
She slid into the chair beside me, crossing her legs with a movement clearly studied to draw my attention.
“I didn’t expect to see you alone. Pleasant company always makes these events more tolerable, don’t you think?”
I lifted an eyebrow, assessing her. Cristina was attractive, intelligent, influential—exactly the kind of woman who should interest me if I were any other man in that room.
But I wasn’t.
“That depends on the company,” I said dryly, turning my gaze back toward the ballroom, making it clear I wasn’t interested.
She looked momentarily surprised by the veiled rejection, but she didn’t give up immediately. Women like Cristina rarely did.
“My father speaks very highly of you,” she continued. “He admires your posture in business.” Her hand landed briefly on mine, casual in a way that wasn’t casual at all. “It would be wonderful to have the chance to talk somewhere else… maybe with a bit more privacy.”
I removed my hand with deliberate care and turned back to her, my coldness intentional.
“I appreciate the invitation,” I said evenly, “but I’m afraid my free time is extremely limited. And when I do have it, I prefer to spend it on things that are actually important.”
Her eyes widened a fraction—surprised, offended—but she recovered quickly, forcing a smile.
“I understand. What a shame, Mr. Ferrara.”
“Yes.” I took another sip of wine, emotionless. “A shame.”
She walked away swiftly, and I made sure anyone watching understood: I was not accessible.
When I finally left—nearly midnight—I did so without saying goodbye to anyone, ignoring the discreet looks that followed me to the door. My driver was waiting again, taking me back to the silence of my penthouse.
The moment I stepped inside, the emptiness pressed in on me. The place was flawless, expensive, and utterly quiet. Exactly how I had chosen to live. Usually, it didn’t bother me.
That night, for the first time in a long time, the silence felt unbearably loud.
I loosened my tie, a rare restlessness creeping under my skin. I needed to do something—anything—to keep my mind from turning in directions I couldn’t allow.
I walked into my private office and opened my laptop with more force than necessary, determined to use work as an emotional escape again.
As soon as the computer powered on, a list of urgent emails filled the screen. I scanned them quickly until one subject line stopped me cold:
URGENT — Serious Issue with the Dreamland Project
I clicked, irritation flaring as I read the few lines from the director in charge:
Mr. Ferrara, we need to speak first thing in the morning. A major complication has arisen regarding Dreamland, and it requires your personal attention immediately.
I exhaled, annoyed, and shut the laptop with a sharp movement.
I didn’t want to deal with it tonight.
Problems. Complications. Urgencies.
That was all my life had become.