C3 Mark's POV

I stare out of the floor-to-ceiling window at the damp London streets. The rain is falling aggressively outside, but I'd much rather stand out there in my Armani suit than be here in this room right now. And that's saying a lot because this is my favorite room in our London office. I turn around and face the six people standing and fidgeting before me, placing my left hand into my pocket so that I can fight the temptation to punch someone. I walk towards them and stand directly in front of a strawberry blonde lady, Samantha—one of the only two women on this team. I hear her draw a sharp breath in, which infuriates me further. I'm the harshest bastard you would ever meet, but I'll never hit a woman.

I walk towards my mahogany desk and sink into the chair majestically, spreading my legs out as I pick up a bronze letter weight from my desk and begin to run my thumb through its intricate designs. My eyes are still on them. The tension is so palpable you can cut it with a knife. I trail my gaze on each of them slowly, making sure to look them in the eye—or at least I try to. Most of them are avoiding eye contact, and the guy at the end is gripping the papers in his hands tight. His face is so pale, he looks like he could pass out any minute now. I decide that this is the climax of my mental intimidation and utter my first words.

"What was the profit margin with the COLE project?" I look directly at the so-called project leader, James Cadok, and he looks down, silent. The silence is expelled by the shuffling of papers and the mumble of incompetent people filling the room.

"Sir, I'm sorry we lost the project, but—" James starts. I raise my hand to silence him. I hate the word 'but'; it always leads to a flimsy excuse. I'm far from being a phlegmatic man, and my rage returns. I throw the bronze letter weight. It sails over James' head and lands in the glass display box where the company's accolades are kept. The sound of broken glass makes James flinch, but I'm not done with him yet. I get up and, in four strides, I am in his face, my right hand holding the lapels of his coat. As I am a lot taller than him, the action lifts him off the carpeted floor a little. My left hand is itching to meet his face.

"I don't pay you to give me excuses, James. I don't pay you to philander around with the people you are supposed to lead—" In my periphery, I see Dawn, the second lady, bow her head in shame. Her short black hair does nothing to cover her flaming cheeks, and I ignore her. "—and I sure as hell don't pay you to lose the freaking deal to the Moores. I pay you to know every single detail about the project! I pay you to execute the project perfectly, and I pay you to swipe the rug out from under their motherfucking feet! But apparently, I pay you for nothing."

I release his coat and take a step back. "So you're fired. Get out."

"S-sir?" He's stunned and just looks blankly at me. I clench my fist and count back from ten. I really don't want to resort to violence.

"I said get out, you imbecile!" I shout, and that's when he finally collects himself and leaves. I go to the bar and pour some whisky into a glass, but then I remember how my father almost ran this company to the ground, drinking himself into a stupor—because of the Moores.

"Argh!" I throw the glass, and it shatters against the door. I take a deep breath to calm myself.

"Samantha?" She sidesteps the broken glass and moves toward me, looking scared.

"You are now the new leader of this team. Don't fuck it up. My assistant will give you further instructions." Taking a deep breath in, "Get out—all of you." She nods as they scramble out. I go to my adjoining restroom to ease myself, and when I return, I see someone in my chair with both their legs propped up on my desk. If it were anyone else, I would have flipped out, but it's my friend Matthew Lotta. We go way back. His mum and mine were best friends, and I've known the little shit since we were four.

"Won't you get someone to clean up now that you're done with your 'terrible twos' tantrum?" he asks. I know he wants to ask about it, but he also knows that losing to the Moores is a very sore subject for me. I ignore him but use the intercom to tell Liz, my P.A., to send in a cleaner. I turn to him, raising my brows in a 'what do you want?' gesture. He just smiles sheepishly.

"Can't I come see my best buddy?"

"What sticky situation do you need me to pull you out of now, Matthew?" I deadpan.

"Well..." he starts, running his hands through his blonde hair. "Remember that beautiful little lady I met in Peru when we went on that last rendezvous?" I realize his dramatic arse is waiting for me to answer, and I croak out a "Yeah?"

"Right. It turns out she's married. Her husband nearly blew my brains out when he caught us in bed together," he says, giving me a cheeky smile while I just shake my head. While I've always been the serious one, knowing I'll take over the family business, Matthew is the last of four sons in the Lotta empire. He quite literally lives for himself, and with the abundance of wealth, power, and connections at his disposal, he doesn't need to lift a finger to get anything—nepotism at its finest. I grab two bottles of water from the mini fridge and toss one to him. He catches it but looks at it like it's the plague, then drops it. He walks towards the bar and gets himself some vodka.

"Is there a point to this visit, or did you just come to give me the latest gossip on your sexcapades?"

He swirls his drink. "Don't pretend you don't enjoy my gossip, Markie Bear," he says, batting his lashes at me mischievously. I let out a sigh. Ever since he heard one of my ex-girlfriends call me that cursed name, I haven't heard the end of it. As I am about to reply, a curt knock sounds from the door, and Elizabeth walks in, looking smart. Matthew lets out a low wolf whistle, and I can already see the gears in his head turning as he tries to figure out what trick would get her into his bed.

"What is it, Liz, and how many times do I have to remind you that it's knock, wait for permission, and then enter?" I ask her.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Wilson, but I have an important message for you." She looks at Matthew and blushes as he smirks in return. I scowl and clear my throat.

"If it is so important that you couldn't page it and had to barge into my office yourself, I suggest you get on with it.”

"Your mother asked that you go to the family house as soon as possible. I've cleared your schedule for the rest of the day."

"Oh yeah, that’s what I actually came in to tell you," Matthew pipes in, as I give him the stink eye.

"You could have led with that instead of telling me that dumb little story."

“Well, I forgot," he sighs dramatically.

“What the hell does she want this time?” I groan in frustration.

“Martha? I think she's a very fine lady when she puts her mind to it. She doesn't seem to be doing too much; she's tough, strict, and I miss your mum. She was calm, kind, loving, not harsh like your stepmother,” he bursts out laughing.

My mum passed away when I was fourteen. We were both on our way from having dinner at one of Dad's many restaurants. Dad left with his colleagues, and I tagged along with my mother. We got into a car accident, and I was the only one who survived. I had blamed myself; guilt ate away at me. No one ever mentions her anymore since my father remarried. Martha was a nice person, but when someone isn't your own, you feel it, and I felt it with her all the time.

“Well,” I say, getting up from my seat and putting on my suit, “when Martha Wilson sends two people to you, you don't walk; you run to her.”

“She scares me.”

“She scares all of us, so if you'll excuse me—”

“You're not excused; we're going together, my Markie,” he smiles, grabbing his briefcase while I grab my coat, heading out to the car already waiting out front.