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Nicolo doesn’t flinch.

“Call it what you want. He doesn’t offer twice.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Refuse,” Nicolo says evenly, “and D’Angelo gets to decide how this ends. Spoiler: You won’t like how he negotiates.”

He leans in, voice low and cold near her ear.

“And trust me, he won’t be this gentle.”

Her fingers drift to the envelope, brushing its surface.

“Your boss must be desperate if he’s out here buying brides,” she says, voice dripping with newfound sass I’ve never witnessed before. “Tell me something—is he that ugly, or just that horrible to be around?”

Through my earpiece, I hear Nicolo’s carefully controlled exhale. This isn’t how he expected the conversation to go. It’s not how I expected it, either.

He’s not kind, but he is precise. Doesn’t waste time—or patience.

But he gives more—if you’re smart.

She opens the envelope, and I hear her gasp—even through the microphone.

“And I’ll get the full million after the deal?” she asks, her hands trembling. “It’ll all be mine?”

“Every cent,” Nicolo says. “All it costs is a yes.”

Nicolo sees right through her, and I frown. I know what she’s thinking, and it’s strange—seeing her in this light. Something’s off.

“If you try to run, we have ways to find you,” Nicolo warns. “Don’t even think about it.”

“I won’t. When would this marriage take place?” she asks, and my pulse quickens. She’s considering it. More than considering—she’s negotiating.

“Saturday. Four days from now.”

“Four days?” Her eyebrows shoot up. “That’s not much time.”

“You have to give me an answer now.”

“And who exactly am I marrying? I don’t even know his name. Don’t tell me I’m supposed to say ‘I do’ to some nameless savior.”

Nicolo’s voice remains even. “You’ll find out when you arrive at the address. The ceremony will be at six in the evening. Don’t be late.”

He reaches into his breast pocket and produces a business card, sliding it across the counter. Chiara picks it up, studies it, then tucks it into her apron.

“You simply have to show up. Everything else has been arranged.”

She stares at him for a long moment, then lowers her gaze to the check. One hundred thousand—ready for immediatedeposit—and a promissory note for the remainder, payable upon completion of the ceremony.

“Let me get this straight,” she says, tucking the check into her apron alongside the card. “I show up at this address on Saturday at six, marry your boss, and all my problems disappear?”

“That’s correct.”

“And what will be expected of me as his wife?”

“Loyalty. You won’t be forced to do anything you don’t want to.”

Her lips curve into a smirk that sends an unexpected jolt through me. “Tell your boss he just bought himself a wife—though he might find he’s getting more than he bargained for.”