"Do you ever shut up willingly?"
"No. It weakens the brand."
He leans back and stretches out like he owns the room. Santos has always moved like the world exists to entertain him. Women love it. Men resent it. I've tolerated it for fifteen years because we were friends before we even became a pack.
"Three months," he says. "It's a long time to be haunted by one omega."
"Especially one as fine as her."
The words are out before I decide to say them.
Santos goes still, then laughs so hard he nearly chokes on my water.
The door opens again.
Matteo enters with two espressos and the expression of a man already regretting his associates. Dark suit. Black hair immaculate. Blue eyes sharp enough to cut glass.
He hands me a cup and surveys the room with the efficiency of someone who's already reaching conclusions.
"Why is he laughing."
"Tomas talking about Jennifer."
Matteo's gaze comes to me. Something moves through it, unreadable and quick. Then it's gone. He takes the remaining chair and slides a folder onto my desk.
"The Nakamura delegation arrives next week," Matteo says, ignoring what both I and Santos said about Jennifer.
"Nakamura-san, yoroshiku onegaishimasu," Santos says with a pleased little bow.
Show-off bastard.
"Don't bring him," I say.
"I speak Japanese," Santos says immediately.
We know. He never stops talking about the fact that he speaks eight languages. He loves learning, and he loves showing off too.
Matteo pinches the bridge of his nose.
On any other day, I'd have read the file, improved the terms, and insulted everyone before lunch. Instead, I'm tasting espresso and memory at the same time.
Jennifer barefoot on the sofa, laughing with her mouth full of bread because Santos ordered enough food for twelve when there were only four of us. Jennifer in the dark before dawn, asleep with her fingers curled around my wrist, as though some quiet animal part of her expected to be left behind and meant to make it difficult.
I set the cup down harder than I intend to.
"It would've helped if she had our number," I say.
Santos goes still.
"You said you'd leave it," he says to Matteo. "In Milan. When we talked about the note. You said you'd leave the number alongside the money."
Matteo sets his espresso down.
"I changed my mind," he says.
The room is quiet in a way that has weight in it.
"You changed your mind," Santos says. Flat. Not a question.