Chapter 141
Raffaele POV
I sit here, watching Daphne as she negotiates with the Irish table of vipers like she was born for it. Her voice is calm but assertive, every word calculated, yet natural. I understand now why there were rumors she orchestrated several international deals abroad—and that none of them failed.
It wasn't exaggeration. It was fact.
Her presence dominates the room, and she's not even trying. The old men here, hardened and used to blood in their whiskey, listen to her. They don't interrupt. They don't scoff. One even nods along, impressed.
And me?
I'm just trying not to look like a stunned idiot. I've been raised to think power only belongs to a certain kind of man. But Daphne? She shatters that image without a single raised voice. She sits there in a pressed suit, legs crossed, a dark file open on the table before her, her tone even and her smile razor-sharp.
She belongs here. In a way that makes the rest of us look like amateurs playing dress-up.
