"For now," Claudia smiled, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Drink your coffee. You’re going to need the energy."
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"A partner," Antonio scoffed, the word tasting like ash. "Is that what we call a hostage situation now?"
"Fifty-fifty," she repeated, uncapping a fountain pen. "Joint venture. We sink or swim together. But I want veto power on any capital expenditure over a million euros. And I want you in Naples, on the ground, running operations. Not in Venice, brooding over coffee."
Claudia Garcia sat opposite him, her posture an architecture of relaxed alertness. She wore a linen blazer the color of parchment, sharp enough to cut glass, yet she leaned back in her chair as if she owned the terrace. Which, Antonio thought bitterly, she effectively did. The debt paper in her briefcase represented more than just capital; it represented the deed to his family's shipping yard in Naples.
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"Fifty-fifty," she said.