The Don’s 89-Point Wife Chapter 02
Adriano ignored the report and left with Isabella.
“Tomorrow at nine, I want the signed equity authorization on my desk.”
At nine the next morning, I placed the document in front of him.
Unsigned.
He glanced at the blank signature line.
“Still not done making a scene?”
He tapped the paper with a silver pen.
It was a Montegrappa he’d given me the year I joined the interpreting center in Geneva, engraved with the center’s emblem.
After I quit my job for him, I’d left it in his study.
Now there was another engraving on the barrel.
Isabella Ricci.
I reached over and snatched the pen away.
Adriano frowned.
“Don’t touch that. Isabella is used to it.”
“It’s mine.”
“It’s just a pen.”
He took a black card from the drawer and pushed it toward me.
“Last night’s score doesn’t count. Go buy yourself something you like.”
I didn’t take it.
“Did you engrave her name on it because she’s more suitable too?”
Just then, Isabella walked in carrying two espressos and stopped by the door.
“Elena, I’m sorry. Adriano told me it was a spare pen. I didn’t know it meant something to you.”
She quickly set down the coffee.
“If you need it, take it.”
Adriano caught her hand.
“She doesn’t even use pens anymore. You use this one for meeting notes all the time. You don’t need to switch.”
Then he looked at me.
“Elena, you were never this petty.”
I slowly loosened my grip.
Seven years ago, he’d waited four hours for me on the stone steps outside the Geneva interpreting center.
It had been pouring rain.
He handed me this pen and told me I looked brighter than anyone else when I stood inside an interpreting booth.
Later, he said Signora Marchetti shouldn’t spend her life traveling between international conferences. It wasn’t dignified.
So I quit.
Now he remembered which pen Isabella preferred, but had forgotten why it belonged to me.
His second-in-command knocked and entered.
“Don, Herr Bauer from Zurich is here.”
Adriano stood and adjusted his cuffs.
“Elena, come to the conference room. Isabella just took over and isn’t experienced in negotiations yet. Back her up.”
I didn’t move.
“In what capacity?”
“My wife.”
“But last night, you said I wasn’t involved in this project.”
He checked his watch impatiently.
“We’re family. Why divide everything into yours and mine?”
Ten minutes into the meeting, Isabella had already mistranslated three key figures.
This wasn’t really a negotiation over artwork, despite the contract title on the table: Cross-Border Transportation Agreement for Renaissance Oil Paintings.
Everyone in that room knew what was actually being discussed.
One wrong digit could mean millions of euros in cargo.
Or several lives.
Herr Bauer’s expression darkened. In German, he directly questioned whether the person across from him had even the most basic qualifications to negotiate.
Isabella tightened her grip on the documents and looked at me for help.
Adriano spoke calmly.
“Elena. Translate.”
“It’s her project.”
“This isn’t the time to sulk.”
“Last night, you said she was better suited for it.”
Silence fell across the table.
Adriano lowered his voice.
“Help her close the deal, and your score can go back to eighty-nine.”
I looked at him for a moment, then took the documents.
Not for the score.
More than thirty former Aurora Line team members had spent six months on this contract—the young people who had built the route maps with me from scratch and traveled through seven European countries handling compliance.
After the meeting, Herr Bauer offered me his hand.
“Signora Marchetti, we always believed you were the one leading this route.”
Before I could answer, Adriano cut in.
“She was only assisting temporarily.”
Isabella smiled.
“Elena has had a lot of free time these past few years. She hasn’t handled family business in a long time. She’s just getting back into the rhythm.”
Herr Bauer looked surprised.
“With Signora’s abilities, keeping her at home is a waste.”
Then he looked at me and added quietly, “If you ever need a way out of your own, my door is always open.”
Adriano’s expression cooled.
“Her health isn’t suited for high-pressure work.”
In front of everyone, he took the contract from my hands and gave it to Isabella.
“You worked hard today.”
Those words weren’t meant for me.
At lunch, Isabella raised her glass.
“Elena, this one’s for you. I couldn’t have secured the contract without you.”
I covered my glass with my hand.
“I’m not drinking.”
Adriano looked over.
“She’s trying to be nice. Don’t be ungrateful.”
“I can’t drink right now.”
Isabella blinked.
“You’re not pregnant, are you?”
My fingers tightened.
Adriano gave a quiet laugh.
“She can’t even control her own emotions. She’s not fit to be a mother yet.”
He pushed the wine toward me.
“Drink it, and we forget yesterday.”
I stared at the red wine shifting in the glass as nausea rolled through my stomach.
“What if I really am pregnant?”
“Then we’ll do an evaluation first. Health, emotional stability, genetic risks. If everything scores at least ninety, we’ll consider keeping it.”
“I don’t need an unqualified heir.”
I stared at him.
For the first time, the man in front of me felt terrifyingly unfamiliar.
Isabella smiled, trying to smooth things over.
“Adriano only has high standards because he cares about the family. Elena, don’t overthink it.”
I picked up the glass.
The tension between Adriano’s brows had just eased when I poured the wine into the empty ice bucket beside me.
“I’m not drinking this.”
“And I’m not signing that authorization.”
His expression turned completely cold.
“Elena, if you keep acting like this, there will be consequences.”
Then he ordered his second-in-command to revoke my credit card access.
The family driver took away the keys to the cars under my name.
“This is only a small warning,” he said. “If you insist on your choice, you won’t want to know what comes next.”
Then he held an umbrella over Isabella and escorted her into the car.
The convoy pulled away.
No one dared let me ride with them.
I stood on the stone steps outside the club and called my former mentor, Professor Laurent.
“Professor, does your offer for a reinstatement assessment still stand?”
There was a brief silence on the other end.
“Elena, weren’t you the one who emailed me saying you were physically and mentally unfit to work and asking me never to contact you again?”
I froze.
“I never sent that email.”
Professor Laurent forwarded it to me.
It had been sent from my private email address.
Beside the electronic signature at the bottom was Adriano’s personal seal.