Chapter 4 - The Titan's Retaliation
By nightfall, the pristine wedding venue had been completely dismantled. The white roses were in dumpsters, the crystal glasses were packed in crates, and the elite guests had scattered like roaches when the lights came on, eager to distance themselves from the exploding Romano scandal.
I sat in my home office overlooking the Hudson River, nursing a glass of single-malt scotch, watching the city skyline glitter in the dark.
My phone buzzed continuously on the mahogany desk. Texts from business associates, worried emails from board members, and frantic missed calls from Victor Romano trying desperately to negotiate a settlement before the morning papers hit the stands.
I ignored them all.
The heavy oak door swung open without a knock. Marco stepped inside, looking grim, carrying a thick manila folder.
“Boss,” Marco said, setting the folder down on my desk. “You were right. The moment Victor left the estate this afternoon, he headed straight for his downtown corporate office. We intercepted encrypted communications between him and his chief financial officer.”
I opened the folder, flipping through the printed transcripts and financial spreadsheets.
“He’s moving capital offshore,” I observed quietly.
“Exactly,” Marco nodded. “Victor knows the SEC and the state attorney general are going to start sniffing around his real estate shell companies now that your security footage is out. He’s trying to drain twenty million dollars from our joint port development accounts to cover his tracks.”
A cold, calculated smile touched the corners of my mouth. Victor thought he was still playing chess, while I had already cleared the board.
“He’s using the Meridian Trust account?” I asked.
“Yes. The one we set up jointly last quarter.”
“Good,” I said, closing the folder and pushing it aside. “Call Judge Vance. Tell him we have verified evidence of capital flight and impending embezzlement from a joint venture. Ask for an emergency freeze on all Meridian Trust assets effective immediately at 8:00 AM tomorrow.”
Marco’s eyes lit up with professional appreciation. “Done. By tomorrow morning, Victor won't even be able to buy a cup of coffee with company funds.”
“And what about Isabella?” I asked.
“She’s holed up in her father’s penthouse on Fifth Avenue,” Marco replied. “Refusing to answer calls, screaming at the domestic staff, smashing antique vases. Total meltdown.”
“Let her break things,” I said, taking a slow sip of scotch. “Her reign of terror is officially over.”
Just then, a soft knock echoed at the study door.
I looked up. Sophia stood in the doorway, holding a tray with a fresh cup of coffee and a small plate of biscuits. She looked hesitant, her eyes lowered respectfully.
“Mr. Moreno,” Sophia said softly. “I… I brought you some coffee. I know it’s late, and you’ve had an impossible day.”
“Thank you, Sophia,” I said, gesturing for her to come in. “Please, sit down. You don't have to call me Mr. Moreno anymore. Not after everything.”
Sophia set the tray down on the desk, stepping back respectfully, but she didn't leave. She wrung her hands together, a deep vulnerability showing in her expressive eyes.
“I want to thank you,” Sophia whispered, her voice cracking slightly. “For believing Emma. For checking the cameras. For… for protecting us. Most people in your position would have looked the other way to protect a wedding.”
“Most people don't have a conscience, Sophia,” I replied gently, looking directly at her. “You and Emma have worked in this house for years, keeping my life running smoothly while I was blind to the cruelty happening right under my roof. I owe you an apology, not the other way around.”
Emma, who had been hiding shyly behind Sophia’s skirt, peeked her head out and gave me a small, toothy smile.
“Can we still play in the garden tomorrow?” Emma asked innocently.
I couldn't help it—a genuine, warm laugh escaped my chest for the first time in months. I crouched down to her eye level, just like I had in the garden that morning.
May you like
“Emma,” I smiled, “you can play in any part of this garden you want. And if anyone ever tries to make your mommy cry again, you tell me immediately. Deal?”
Emma nodded solemnly, extending her tiny pinky finger. I linked mine with hers, sealing a promise that no amount of money or elite status could ever break.
