Page 2 of Cartel Rose (Jorge)

Doesn’t exactly leave much room for me, but I’m still the Chief Operations Officer and second-in-command.

I don’t appreciate him sending my father an email two days ago announcing his impending arrival. We definitely didn’t ask him to come. But here I am schmoozing.

“Thank you, Ms. Schlossberg. I know this was a last-minute imposition, and I apologize for the inconvenience. I’m certain you rearranged your schedule to indulge me.”

That’s unexpected.

“It’s all right. We’re happy to accommodate you.”

Fuck.

I internally wince.

I sounded like a complete bitch. He just apologized, and I threw it back in his face. People say the Germans can be—brusque. Apparently, I’m proving that.

His lips twitch as though he’d smile, but that wouldn’t fit with his commanding presence.

“Anne, everything’s ready to go.”

I forgot Johan was in here, setting everything up. The man is quieter than a church mouse. He also works harder than just about anyone I know. He’s completely unflappable, so perfect in a crisis. I rarely get rattled, but if I do, I know I can count on him.

“Thank you, Johan. Please have Alex bring the tray. Mr. Diaz, would you prefer coffee or tea?”

“Just water, please.”

I twist to look at Johan, who slips out of the room.

“Ms. Schlossberg, I know I’m early. I wished to speak to you before everyone else arrives.”

This feels as ominous as a partner saying, “we need to talk” right before a breakup.

“Please have a seat.”

I gesture toward the table and chairs.He walks to the seat directly to the right of the chair at the head of the table. My chair. I force myself not to scowl when he doesn’t stop where I assumed but at mine. I’m unprepared for him to pull it out for me. It’s on wheels, so he steps aside and pulls out his own seat. The one I thought he’d choose. He doesn’t sit until I do.

Old world charm.

His parents must’ve drilled that into him because it’s as though he gave it no thought. He twists in his chair, so he can face me more easily. My gaze takes in his permanently sun-kissed skin, milk chocolate eyes, and five o’clock shadow. He fillsthe chair with his athletic build, and it’s clear he’s all bone and muscle. The man didn’t skip leg day.

“Ms. Schlossberg, my uncle sent me as the Diaz Holdings forensic accountant rather than my other uncle who’s a financier. We have reservations about the valuation you sent. I hoped you could explain it to me, please.”

Please.

It’s difficult to be in a snit with someone with impeccable manners. However, I struggle not to narrow my eyes when he insinuates I made an error in my analysis.

“What part of the valuation concerns you?”

“All of it.”

My chin notches up, and I know I’m looking down my nose at him. It’s a reaction I’ve honed over the years when I feel someone’s underestimating me. He’s going to argue the company he wishes to invest in is worth less than I proposed.

“Perhaps you could be more specific. Please.”

I can be polite too. I swear I can.

“This company is a dolled-up shell corp. Kutsenko Partners currently owns the real holding. That’s what we wish to buy. The numbers you reported are vastly under the true value. They only include the shell, which is an asset. But it’s not what we want. I suspect it was Pasha Kutsenko, not Sumiko Kutsenko, who sent you the information.”

I neither confirm nor deny.