Page 8 of Ricardo

Oh. I like that.

I like making him laugh.

The realization is very, very dangerous.

His laughter fades, but the smile remains. “You have known my brother for two weeks and already understand him better than men who have worked beside him for years.”

“I doubt that.”

“You should not.”

“I also didn’t say I understand him. I said he’s terrifying.”

“And that does not frighten you?”

“I would be stupid if it didn’t.”

“Yet you are here.”

“I’ve worked with donors who smiled while destroying entire programs because a seating chart offended them,” I say. “Mario is direct. That is refreshing.”

Ricardo’s gaze sharpens.

“You find him refreshing.”

“In a certain sense.”

“What sense?”

“The sense in that if he is displeased, I know it immediately.”

“And you prefer that?”

I look back at my screen, but I am not reading anymore. “I prefer knowing where the knife is before it's in my back.”

The words leave my mouth before I can soften them.

Silence follows.

This one is different.

I keep my eyes on the screen. Heat crawls up the back of my neck, but I do not apologize.

I meant it. I do prefer knowing. I prefer a clear threat to a charming one. I prefer a man who scares everyone in the room honestly over one who saves his cruelty for locked doors and perfect smiles.

Ricardo sets his coffee down.

The cup makes almost no sound against the saucer.

“Spoken from experience,” he says quietly.

I look at him then.

The amusement has not disappeared, exactly. It has settled into something deeper. His face is still composed, still elegant, but the air around him has changed. He is no longer only entertained by me.

He is listening.

Really listening.