I soften the eyes. I lift the corners of my mouth. I set my expression in a way that says I’m listening. People love that.
I step out of the suite and into the hallway. The Regent Club’s upper floor is quiet, thick carpeting swallowing sound.Two security men stand at the elevator, suits tight over broad shoulders, earpieces in place. They nod when they see me.
“Evening, Mr. Conti.”
“Evening,” I return, easily.
The elevator ride down is short. The doors open onto noise and light and movement. The gala is already in full swing.
The Regent Club looks the way money is supposed to feel—warm lighting, polished stone, glass that catches reflections. There’s a long bar with bartenders in black vests moving fast, trays of champagne circulating with practiced grace. Music flows under the conversation, just loud enough to make people lean closer.
A cluster of guests turns as I step out. Recognition flashes across a few faces—people who have been told my name, people who have been told what I can do for them, people who have been told not to get too close.
I give them the smile anyway. The smile is free. Until it isn’t.
I move into the crowd as if I belong there, because I do.
A hand touches my elbow. Caterina.
She looks impeccable, as always, hair smooth, dressed sharply in the kind of way that says she can calculate your balance sheet while she’s sipping champagne. Luca’s daughter, but more than that: a Conti with her own spine.
“You’re late,” she says.
“I’m right on time,” I tell her.
Her gaze flicks to my torso as if she can see through the fabric. “How’s it feeling?”
“Like it wants attention.”
“Don’t give it any.”
“Always good advice,” I say, and I mean it.
She nods toward the room. “Northstar’s people are over there. By the sculpture. The tall guy in the navy tux is the CEO. Malcolm Crane.”
“Crane,” I repeat, filing it away. “Board?”
“Two of them,” she says. “Eleanor Pierce and David Halbrook. Counsel is with them.”
“Who’s driving the numbers?” I ask.
Caterina’s mouth twitches. “You’re going to love this. Their due diligence lead has final internal sign-off for acquisitions like this.”
“Smart company,” I say.
“Nilsson.”
“Nilsson,” I repeat, tasting it. I picture a small man with thinning hair and a weaselly voice.
Caterina watches my face. She knows me too well. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“The thing where you decide you can win someone by sheer force of personality.”
“I can,” I say calmly.
“You can win attention,” she corrects. “You can win admiration. You can win people who want something from you. But Nilsson isn’t like the others.”