Page 10 of The Art of Ruin

Nico is mid-call when I walk in, standing by the window, voice low, controlled, the kind that doesn’t carry—but doesn’t need to. Matteo is where he shouldn’t be—leaning back in a chair, feet on the edge of the conference table, phone balanced in one hand.

“Morning,” Matteo says. “You look like you’ve already solved something and hated everyone involved.”

“Get your feet off the table.”

He grins, but does it.

Nico ends the call and turns. His eyes move over me once, checking I’m OK. Not intrusive, rather a big brother habit.

“Everything good at home? Letty ok?”

“Yes. All good. Mrs. Romano came early. They’re going to bake.”

“Lucky bastard. Elena Romano is an awesome baker.”

Matteo grumbles, only slightly put out that she’s toppled him off the top spot of family food expert.

I smirk at Matteo. “She’s single.”

Matteo grins as he nods along. “Yeah, and Italian.”

“Will you two pack that shit in? My mother-in-law is not about to be your next conquest, Matteo. Eugh. No. Fuck, no. Plus, I have a feeling Rossi will string you up by your balls if you even wink in her direction.”

Now it’s Nico who looks smug as Matteo winces.

But true to form, my baby brother soon recovers. “Oh, well, I guess the single ladies of New York can rest easy.”

“Any chance we can get back to work now? You know, the reason we come here,” I say, wrangling the conversation back to the topic.

That’s enough.

We sit around the table and get to it.

Numbers first. Always.

Then contracts.

Then the vendor issue that has been sitting on my desk since Friday afternoon because people like to send problems at four fifty-eight and pretend it isn’t deliberate.

Matteo flips through the report too quickly. “They’ll fold if we push.”

Nico leans back. “Not today.”

“They don’t need to,” I say.

Both of them look at me.

I turn the page and slide the second contract toward Nico. “They’re posturing. The delay clause works in our favor after close of business tomorrow. If we press now, we give them grounds to renegotiate.”

Matteo sighs. “You make extortion sound like accounting.”

“It usually is.”

Nico’s mouth twitches.

I tap the margin. “Forty-eight hours. No calls. No pressure. Let them overplay it.”

“They might not,” Matteo says.