Dante had barely stepped into the office when the storm hit him.
Adriano didn't give him a second to breathe. The moment his son crossed the threshold, the old man hurled a stack of files across the table. They scattered on the floor like wounded birds.
“So this is what you call work?” Andreano’s voice boomed through the glass walls. “This,” he jabbed a finger at the overturned documents “is what you brought to my table?”
Dante braced himself. He’d known the moment he saw his father’s car parked outside the headquarters that today wouldn’t end well.
“Papa…”
“Don’t ‘papa’ me.” Andriano’s voice cracked like a whip. “You think this company is a playground? You think you can show up, sign papers, wear suits, drink wine, and call yourself an executive? You think leadership is a decoration?
