Page 1 of The No Falling Rule
Chapter 1
Diego
“Are you seriously holding a business meeting during your daughter’s wedding week?”
I’m not sure how we’re related, but where I love the sun and the heat, my brother, Armando, seems to be allergic to it. His shirt is already drenched in sweat.
“Diego, we don’t stop being Grossos just because we’re in paradise.”
“Right,” I mutter, glancing around the marble lobby of our resort in La Romana, Dominican Republic. Bellboys move in precise choreography, guests drift past the check-in counters, and somewhere behind us, ocean air pushes through the open doors. “Because God forbid any of us try relaxing for five minutes.”
Armando doesn’t even blink. He’s already back on his tablet, probably scrolling through financials. “All the Grosso Enterprises executives are here,” he says. “We’re meeting to see what needs to be done before the year ends to meet our goals.”
An easy smile spreads across my lips. I know he thinks he’s got me. “My assistant will send you a copy of my end of the year report. I’ve not only met my goals, I exceeded them.” I raise an eyebrow at his shocked expression. “If you have any other questions, I’ll be happy to meet with you after the holidays.”
I take one step and decide to say one more thing. “With all due respect, who the fuck in their right mind thinks we can meet goals that haven’t been met in a year during one week?”
“I’m not so sure you have what it takes to be a Grosso, little brother,” he spits once I pass him. “Besides, we’ll also be talking about the Chile acquisition.”
I laugh under my breath. “You mean the one I’m closing?”
His jaw tightens. “You’re still learning.”
There it is. The same damn line I’ve been hearing since I was old enough to reach the conference table. The youngest Grosso. Theoopsbaby. The one still “proving himself.”
I clap him on the shoulder—a little too hard. “You’re right, big brother. Still learning how to enjoy my success while you stress about everyone else’s.”
Before he can answer, I turn toward the pool bar.
The humidity hits like a second skin. The scent of coconut oil, salt, and grilled pineapple drifts through the air. Somewhere near the tiki bar, a DJ remixes Christmas songs into reggaetón beats.
This—this is what I love about the Caribbean. No boardrooms. No quarterly reports. Just sun, rhythm, and people actually living.
The bartender spots me and grins. “Welcome back, Mr. Grosso.”
“Buchanan on the rocks.”
He slides a napkin and my drink across the counter. “On the house, jefe.”
“Gracias,amigo.”
I take a sip, and for the first time in days, my shoulders loosen.
Someone shouts my name, and I turn on my heel.
A soft body bumps my back, a gasp fills the air, and in slow motion, I see a woman’s wide brown eyes, a flailing suitcase, and—
Splash.
Water erupts behind me.
“Shit.”
I drop my glass and dive in.
Cold hits like an electric current. She’s sitting at the bottom, disoriented, frozen. I kick down, wrap my arms around her waist, and push off hard.
We break the surface, and I haul her toward the edge, sputtering water and barking orders at the nearest staff.
