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Rafaelo, the youngest cousin, Francesco’s other brother, who sat to Francesco’s right, opposite the empty chair, paused as the door opened and they all turned, naturally, towards the interruption.
Portia had to use all of her self-control to silence the little squawk that had burst into her throat at the sight of Marco.
Marco Santoro. Here. In Dante’s boardroom.
Wearing nothing like the other family members, in their tailored suits and starched shirts. Of course he wasn’t. Marco hadn’t bothered to dress for the occasion, but rather strode in wearing jeans, possibly the same jeans he’d pulled on the morning she’d been in his apartment, a brown belt, and a collared t-shirt in a light blue that only made his honey-coloured skin look deeper, richer, and all the more delicious. He also wore his trademark five o’clock shadow and air of nonchalance as he swaggered—it was the only word for it—into the room.
“Morning,” he flashed a grin at the assembled family members, glanced past Portia as though he’d never met her before. Her stomach lurched uncomfortably, her eyes flashed to the tablet, where she pretended fascination with the document she had open.
There was a general break in the formalities as everyone greeted Marco with the pleasure of family reunited with a long-lost member. There were handshakes, hugs, general chatter, from all except Dante, who held his place, fingers templed beneath his chin. “Can we continue?” He asked with a quiet command to his voice that reminded Portia of a headmaster calling an unruly class to order.
The smiles stayed in place though, the family unconcerned with Dante’s obvious displeasure. They did however take their seats, Marco the exception, as he moved towards the coffee machine and poured himself a thick, black cup.
“Raf,” Dante invited. “You were saying?”
Rafaelo nodded. Portia stared at him, refusing to look at Marco, even as he walked across her line of vision, to take his seat. She focused everything on Rafaelo and the conversation, intent on missing nothing, on pretending Marco didn’t exist.
“There’s some hold up on their end.”
“Whose end?”
“Acto Corp.”
“Why do you say that?”
“They’re dragging their heels. Due diligence is taking so long because they’re failing to provide information when requested. We’re chasing things two, three times. It’s arriving incomplete.”
“We’re buying the company because of incompetence,” Salvatore reminded them, shrugging. “Isn’t it possible that incompetence merely goes all the way down?”
“No,” Marco responded. “Raf’s right. And it’s not incompetence so much as neglect.”
Dante leaned forward slightly. “We’re talking about the Acto merger.”
Marco shot him a grin that was laced with brotherly impatience. Portia looked away, one side of her mouth twitching involuntarily. “No shit.”
Dante’s brows drew together then he leaned back in his chair, a study in relaxed curiosity. Portia saw beneath it. He was annoyed. And she couldn’t blame him. Marco was barely there, a figment that existed, occasionally in the shadows, but more often than not, as an absence in the company. Yet here he was, turning up so close to this massive deal they’d been working on for as long as Portia had been at the company, being finalized, and Marco was acting as though he knew more than anyone else.
“Okay, go on,” Dante said, gesturing to the table. “You have our attention.”
“Why would a company that’s in such a sorry state be stalling?”
“Incompetence,” Salvatore repeated.
“Every single person? No. It’s strategy. They have another buyer.”
“Impossible,” Dante responded. “I’d know.”
“Would you? How?”
“You can’t keep something like this quiet.”
“Of course you can. Mergers happen off the page all the time. Hostile takeovers are par for the course. How many companies have we swallowed up before the left hand knew what the right hand was doing?”
“You think someone in Acto Corp is looking for an alternative?”
“I think they’ve been made another offer, one they don’t want to refuse.”
“Ours is an offer they can’t refuse.”
