An agreement is finally reached over the millionaire's inheritance

THE PACT OF FLESH AND FINANCE

The air in Vasudeva's study still carried the musk of their coupling—sweat, sex, and the faintest hint of sandalwood incense clinging to the heavy drapes. Talia adjusted the strap of her black silk dress, her storm-grey eyes flicking to Clemente as he buttoned his wrinkled shirt with trembling fingers. A thin sheen of sweat glistened on his collarbone, his usually sharp features softened by the afterglow of their brutal session.

Vasudeva lounged in his high-backed chair, swirling a glass of amber liquor, his crimson gaze tracking them like a predator watching prey decide whether to flee or fuck again.

"A productive session," he murmured, lips curling as Talia's thighs squeezed together at the memory of Clemente's cock splitting her throat. "I trust we've reached an understanding?"

Clemente adjusted his cheap glasses, the lenses fogged briefly by his ragged breath. "Fifteen million euros," he said, voice hoarse from growling orders into Talia's gagging mouth. "Transferred to Laiani Holdings by tomorrow."

Talia smirked, running a manicured nail down her own throat, tracing the faint redness where Clemente's grip had bruised her. "Mmm, and a seat on the trustees' board," she purred, her Russian accent curling around the words like a cat stretching. "Non-negotiable."

Clemente's jaw twitched. He hated conceding power—hated it almost as much as he hated how his cock stirred again watching her lick her lips clean of him. "Fine. But you report to me. Not the other way around."

Vasudeva chuckled, setting down his glass with a soft clink. "And my compensation?"

Talia sauntered forward, her hips swaying, the slit in her dress revealing a flash of toned thigh. She placed a folder on the desk—thick, embossed with the Laiani Group logo. "Five percent shares in the Hôtel du Cap-Eden-Roc," she said, her nail tapping the file. "Monthly dividends wired to your Cayman account. Roughly... thirty thousand euros, depending on occupancy."

Vasudeva's fingers stroked the folder, his smile widening. "Generous."

Clemente lit a cigarette, the flame trembling slightly in his grip. "We'll be back in three weeks," he muttered, exhaling smoke through his nose. "After we deal with Lucille."

At the mention of Silvio's legendary executive assistant, Talia's smirk faltered. Lucille Grisaille wasn't just a secretary—she was Silvio's right hand, the gatekeeper to the empire's inner workings. If anyone could unravel their new... arrangement, it was her.

Vasudeva leaned forward, his voice dropping to a hypnotic murmur. "And the other matter?" His eyes flicked meaningfully between them. "The blood between you?"

Talia's breath hitched. Clemente frowned.

"What blood?" he demanded, his cigarette pausing halfway to his lips.

Talia **** a laugh, too high, too sharp. "Nothing," she said, stepping between them, her hand landing on Clemente's chest. "Just our new... family ties." Her fingers trailed lower, brushing the bulge in his slacks. "Speaking of which... we should celebrate our deal. Your penthouse has that wonderful view of the Po."

Clemente's nostrils flared. He knew she was hiding something—knew it in the way her pulse jumped when Vasudeva spoke. But her palm was warm through his shirt, her scent—expensive perfume and him—clouding his thoughts.

"Fine," he growled, crushing his cigarette into an ashtray. "But you're riding me this time. No hypnosis. No games."

Talia's laugh was velvet and venom. "Oh, Clementino..." She pressed closer, her lips grazing his ear. "All the best things in life are games.*"

Vasudeva watched them leave, Talia's fingers already undoing Clemente's belt in the elevator. His hand slid beneath his robes, stroking himself slowly.

Lucille Grisaille would be fascinating to break.