Chapter 1 - The Cold Verdict
The silence in the forbidden study of the Castalano estate felt heavy enough to crush bone. Vincent Castalano stayed crouched for three agonizing seconds, his dark, sharp eyes scanning my four-year-old daughter’s face with an intensity that usually preceded a firing squad or a trip to the river. Then, slowly, the terrifying lines around his mouth softened—just a fraction—before he stood back up to his full, imposing height.
“She has your nose,” Vincent said, his voice a low, resonant baritone that seemed to vibrate straight through the Persian rug. He didn't look at me; his gaze remained fixed on Mia, who was currently examining a heavy brass paperweight on his desk. “And your stubbornness.”
“Mr. Castalano, I will pack our things immediately,” I stammered, my heart hammering violently against my ribs as I rushed forward to scoop Mia into my arms. “I swear you won't see us again. I’ll forfeit my week’s pay, just... please don't blacklist me from the agency.”
Renzo Moretti cleared his throat loudly from the corner, shifting his weight. He had been Vincent’s right-hand man for over a decade, a man who viewed emotion as a structural weakness. Yet, right now, Renzo looked like he was biting the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning.
Vincent turned his cold, calculating gaze toward me. His charcoal suit was immaculate, tailored by an Italian artisan who clearly didn't design clothes for men who ran international shipping syndicates with an iron fist. “Blacklist you, Clara? For what? Bringing an unauthorized consultant into a high-level security meeting?”
I swallowed hard, clutching Mia tighter. “Consultant?”
“She accurately diagnosed my resting expression as hostile,” Vincent remarked dryly, walking back around his massive oak desk and sitting down. He steepled his long fingers together, resting his chin against them. “Most adults are too terrified to point it out. Your daughter has good instincts.”
“She’s four, sir. Her instincts mostly involve peanut butter and sticky fingers,” I murmured, my face burning with humiliation.
“Indeed,” Vincent replied, his tone chillingly smooth. “Which brings us to your punishment for breaching estate protocol. Renzo, take them down to the East Wing kitchen. Ensure the child is fed something with actual nutritional value instead of whatever crackers were smuggled in that backpack. Then report back to me.”
Renzo blinked in surprise, quickly masking it. “Right away, Boss.”
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As Renzo gently guided us toward the heavy mahogany doors, I looked back over my shoulder. Vincent was already staring down at his corporate ledger, his expression once again carved from ice, but the shadow of a smirk lingered at the very edge of his mouth.
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