Page 39 of The Art of Ruin

5.Adriano

The meeting should have endedforty-three minutes ago. Instead, Matteo threatened a shareholder across twelve feet of polished walnut while Nico stared at the quarterly reports like he was reconsidering every life decision that led him here. Now that almost everyone has gone, I need to find out why.

The air conditioning hums steadily overhead, fighting a losing battle against the late afternoon heat pouring through the glass walls of the conference room. Beyond them, Manhattan glitters in washed gold, all sharp lines and money and people pretending power doesn’t corrupt absolutely.

Inside ISM Holdings, it absolutely does.

I close the acquisition file in front of me before I accidentally crease the paper. “You asked if he wanted to keep his teeth,” I say.

Across the table, Matteo sprawls further into his chair, expensive suit wrinkling beneath him in a way that would probably give our tailor chest pain. One ankle hooks over his knee as he spins a pen lazily through his fingers. “I implied consequences.”

Nico turns a page without looking up. “You asked if his security team was fast enough to stop you.”

“That’s still technically a question.”

Near the windows, two junior associates suddenly become deeply invested in their laptops.

I pinch the bridge of my nose briefly. “Why?”

Matteo’s jaw shifts. Not dramatic. Most people would miss it.

I’ve spent most of my life learning the exact difference between Matteo joking and Matteo deciding violence might genuinely improve a situation.

“He made Claire cry.”

The room stills for half a second.

Not because Matteo raised his voice.

Because he didn’t.

Nico finally looks up from the reports spread across the table. “And?”

Matteo tosses the broken pen onto the walnut surface with a sharp clatter. “And he spent twenty minutes talking over her presentation like she was too stupid to understand her own numbers.”

Claire had built the Singapore projections herself. I know because I’d reviewed them with her at nearly one in the morning three nights ago while Matteo complained from the sofa in his office about spreadsheets being “emotionally hostile.”

“She corrected him twice,” Matteo continues. “Politely.”

“And?” Nico repeats.

Matteo leans forward now, forearms braced against his knees. “Then he called her sweetheart.”

Ah.

That explained the mood.

Across the room, one of the associates quietly closes her laptop like she’s trying not to exist.

I lean back slightly in my chair, loosening my cuff buttons one at a time while Matteo glares at the far wall like the shareholder is still standing there.

Most people underestimated Matteo because he gave them permission to.

They see charm, recklessness, a man who jokes too much and takes very little seriously.

They miss how quickly Matteo noticed discomfort in a room.

Especially from women.