Page 10 of The Holidays with Mr. Mitchell
“No. It’s nothing,” I said, straightening my tie. “It just reminded me I need to have my contractors triple-check every damn nail in my house.”
“Oh?” Titus chuckled, shaking his head. “I’ve heard some shit in my life, Mitch, but lovers and nail guns? That’s a new one.”
I rolled my eyes and pulled my sunglasses back on, “Nah, man. I will say, though, my wife does keep my life interesting.”
“I can only imagine, brother,” he said, before the foreman returned after being pulled away earlier on an urgent build matter.
My mind drifted back to my lady while Titus entertained the man. I loved how she kept me on my toes, how there could never be a dull moment if we tried. The truth was, Avery kept me grounded. Even standing here, surrounded by millions of dollars’ worth of steel and men who followed my orders without hesitation, it was Avery’s laugh that anchored me. The thought of her softening my edges after a day like this reminded me why I did it all.
The foreman called out numbers, and Titus’s attention snapped back to the plans. I let mine drift toward the horizon, where the ocean stretched endlessly blue. Business was good. Power was addictive. But what waited for me at home tonight was all that mattered and everything that kept me going.
After wrappingthe morning business meeting with Titus over lunch, I headed back to the office to catch up on any business I hadn’t been able to handle over the phone. We had three acquisitions on the table, each worth over four million—companies that should’ve been begging for our attention. Easydeals, in theory. But, of course, these bastards all loved to act as if we needed them, not the other way around, which turned everything into a string of meetings and a goddamn hassle.
“Mr. Mitchell,” Brooke looked up from her computer.
“It’s going to have to wait,” I said, breezing by her computer after having read another needy text from Bronson on this fucking hassle of an acquisition.
“It can’t,” she said.
“Do you have an emergency?” I said, confused.
“Marco D’Amico is here. He—Ah…he’s already in your office.”
I turned from her and walked toward my office, jaw tightening. No one walked into my office without being invited or having an appointment scheduled.
Marco stood there in a rumpled linen suit, gold cufflinks flashing like he’d dressed for nostalgia instead of business. He didn’t move to shake my hand, and I didn’t offer one.
“Most people wait to be scheduled,” I said flatly.
He smiled, as if he thought he was charming. “My father never waited for invitations, Mitchell. Neither do I, especially when it’s about my family’s legacy.”
There it was.Legacy. I gestured toward the chair opposite my desk. “Sit.”
He did and leaned forward as if the office were his. “Four point three million is an insult for D’Amico’s Fine Provisions. You’ve seen the crowds. You know the Beverly Hills and Malibu stores?—”
“Are bleeding cash,” I interrupted, voice cutting in like steel. I slid a file across the desk. “Your net margins are at twelve percent. The Malibu location loses money three months of the year. And your E-commerce is a goddamn joke. The only thing keeping your valuation above four million is the Beverly Hillslease and your name recognition due to a TikTok viral video from a muck bang influencer.”
His jaw clenched. “You talk numbers, Mr. Mitchell. I talk history. Fifty years of family craft. Imported meats, olive oil from Umbria. You think people come to us for spreadsheets?”
“No. They come for nostalgia,” I said. “And nostalgia doesn’t pay the bills.”
I watched him huff and strain not to roll his eyes in frustration at me.
I leaned forward, lowering my voice. “Here’s the difference between us. I don’t need D’Amico’s. My empire runs just fine without artisanal mortadella. But I see potential, and my wife loves your panini, which is the only reason you’re sitting here instead of on your way to bankruptcy court in two years, give or take.”
His brows shot up, but I didn’t let him speak.
“I’ve already funneled nearly a million dollars’ worth of business your way personally. Every charcuterie board at my headquarters, at my regional offices, at my retreats, at my events. I’ve had you provide them. Mitchell & Associates alone represents eight hundred and fifty thousand dollars in annual contracts for you. You know what that means? It means I’ve already made you relevant again. I also planned to order more for the company for this year’s holiday season, unless I should take my business to someone else?”
I let the words settle before driving the nail in.
“So here are your choices. Take my four pointthree million, keep the D’Amico name on every storefront, and watch your brand expand to Vegas, Aspen, and Miami under my umbrella. Or walk out of here, lose the contracts I’ve handed you so far, and watch your numbers dry up until your daughter is forced to sell at half the price.”
Marco’s eyes flicked to the file he hadn’t wanted to touch. He knew I was right. Pride had him straining against it, but pride didn’t pay rent in Beverly Hills.
“You need me more than I need you,” I said, leaning back calmly. “And I don’t make the same offer twice.”
Silence. Then, finally, in a voice tight with swallowed pride, “I’ll speak with Claudia.”
