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“Obviously. Anything you want to talk about?”
“Nothing that would interest you,” he replied, softening the dismissal with a smile.
She pouted prettily. “All right. I’ll leave you alone, but remember, I won’t wait forever.”
With that last warning, Stella let herself into the condo. She paused and cast another baleful look at him, perhaps hoping he would change his mind. Her shoulders dropped slightly when she realized he wouldn’t.
“Good night,” she whispered. Then she quietly shut the door.
Dante strolled down the hall to the elevator, nodding briefly at the couple who exited before walking into the cabin. On the ride down, his thoughts once again turned to Annabelle.
Had she given him the full story?
Outside, he approached the valet stand. He usually drove himself everywhere and didn’t have a full-time driver, preferring to contract with a service as the need arose.
“Hello,” he said, holding out his card.
The young woman took it, a smile of interest spreading across her face. “Hello. I’ll be right back.” She raced off.
As he waited, he thought about how much his life had changed. People believed he was a ruthless, cutthroat businessman—and in many ways, he was and welcomed the characterization. He knew what it was like to go without and never wanted to be in such a position again.
Years ago, his father had been injured on the job, which cut the family income in half. Then the Venezuelan economy collapsed, and they were hit with hyperinflation and high unemployment. As the eldest son, he moved to the States at the age of seventeen to start a new life and do what he could to help his family. He worked multiple jobs to make ends meet and hid his struggle from them by prioritizing necessary purchases instead of wants, so he could send money home. Having crossed the threshold into billionaire status, he had one goal—to acquire more. All because he learned a valuable but brutal lesson early on.
He had been working multiple jobs for a couple of years, one of which was shining businessmen’s shoes early in the morning. He hated the work, but the tips were great if he did a good job. There was one man he had seen a few times and admired.
The guy dressed sharply in obviously expensive suits, pulled his cash from a gold money clip, and had an air of success about him. One day, he sat in Dante’s chair, and Dante worked up the nerve to ask advice on how to become successful like he was. He would never forget the man’s reaction.
He laughed.
Laughedin Dante’s face.
“Where did you go to college? What skills do you have other than shining shoes?” He leaned forward, gaze meeting Dante’s. “Do yourself a favor and be realistic, kid. People will tell you that you can be anything you want to be, but it’s not true. The people who start where you are and succeed are the exceptions, not the rule. You need knowledge. Education, preferably Ivy League. You have to dress the part. You, my friend, have none of that. I can barely understand what you’re saying with that thick accent. Maybe one day you’ll find a job working in a nice place—I don’t know. But successful like me? That’ll never happen.”
He chuckled to himself, as if the thought of Dante’s success was preposterous.
The burn of humiliation seared Dante’s cheeks. He had been looking for something, reaching out a hand for help from someone he admired, but he’d had the same hand smacked in the most unkind way.
That executive wasn’t the first person to express the belief that Dante wouldn’t amount to much. He’d grown accustomed to people dismissing him because of his clothes and accent, but those words had been openly condescending and extra cruel. They cut deeper than any slight he had experienced since he migrated to the country.
Stepping down from the chair, the man pulled a twenty from his gold money clip and tossed the bill on the bottom step. “You need it more than I do. Keep the change.” He strolled away.
Dante never went back to the shoeshine stand, but the encounter left an indelible mark on his spirit, sparking his drive to build a real estate empire, one asset at a time.
The conversation also reminded him to be compassionate. Today, he gave back in many ways. Donating to the local shelter and food banks, which he frequented when he first arrived in the country. If not for them, he would’ve gone to bed hungry more often than not. He also spoke at local nonprofits to young people interested in entrepreneurship. In a city where one fourth of the population came from outside the United States, Dante hoped seeing him would inspire kids who looked like him and talked like him—and those who didn’t—to reach for the stars.
The young woman returned with his Mercedes GLS SUV. He tipped her before sliding behind the wheel and pulled away from the curb.
The more he mulled the conversation with Annabelle, the more appealing her offer became. But he had sworn never to marry again. He liked his life and the freedom to come and go as he pleased, sleep with beautiful women, and answer to no one about anything. He certainly never considered remarrying the woman who had dumped him and trampled his heart in the process.
But Annabelle, the conniving wench, had planted a seed. He wanted that building. Not only was it prime commercial real estate, but it also had an interesting history. The original building was a fourteen-floor high-rise which had been demolished and replaced with the current seventy-six-story structure right before the Texas real estate collapse in the 1980s. For several years, there were no new major buildings built, which made the Hilderbrandt stand out and cemented its place as a landmark in Houston history—in a historical context as well as for its structural beauty.
If he gained possession of the plaza, it would be the crown jewel in his empire and declare he had truly arrived. He had won at life through hard work and perseverance—without an Ivy League education, three-piece suit, andwithhis accent. He imagined the day he signed the papers, essentially shooting two middle fingers at everyone who’d made him feel less than.
Dante eased to a stop at a red light, hardly noticing the other cars coming to a standstill around him.
If he agreed to Annabelle’s ridiculous scheme, he had to be sure what he was getting himself into, and certain that no matter what happened during the course of their fake marriage, he obtained the proximity to Nolson that he needed. He couldn’t trust her. But he had no doubt that if he got an audience with the man, he could convince Nolson to sell him the building.
He dialed Sebastian’s number.
