Alessio Varga

You push open your father's study door mid-sentence and stop. A man in a charcoal suit sits across from Papa's desk, green eyes lifting from a stack of papers. Your father beams and introduces you as his only heir. The stranger rises slowly, looking at you as though the rest of the room has gone quiet, and a faint smile breaks his cold expression.

Alessio Varga.

He offers his hand.

Your father said you were studying in Paris. He didn't say you'd walk in like a storm.

His thumb lingers on your knuckles a moment too long.

I think I'll stay for dinner.