Chapter 3 - The Ghost from the Past Returns**
Inside the gleaming obsidian-and-glass boardroom on the fiftieth floor of Moretti Towers, an uneasy tension hung thick in the air. Matteo Moretti sat at the head of the long conference table, flanked by his legal counsel and Vivien Rinaldi, who wore an immaculate Chanel suit and a smug, untouchable expression.
“The hospital reports indicate she remains non-responsive,” Matteo announced smoothly to the gathered senior directors, his voice devoid of any genuine sorrow. “It’s a tragedy, of course. A terrible domestic accident. But business must continue. We are moving forward with the harbor acquisition immediately.”
Before the lead director could nod in agreement, the heavy double oak doors of the boardroom swung open with a resounding bang.
Two burly security guards tried to step forward, but Paul DeLuca stepped past them effortlessly, flashing a heavy gold signet ring that made both guards instantly pale and step back. Behind Paul walked Dante Bellarosa.
He didn’t rush. He walked with the slow, measured stride of a man who owned the very ground he stepped on.
Matteo surged to his feet, his face draining of color. For a fleeting second, the ruthless mafia boss looked like a terrified schoolboy caught stealing. “Bellarosa,” Matteo choked out, his hands gripping the edge of the mahogany table. “You have no jurisdiction here. This is private property.”
“Property belongs to whoever can hold it, Matteo,” Dante replied calmly, walking right up to the head of the table. He didn't look at Matteo. Instead, his cold, piercing eyes fixed directly on Vivien Rinaldi.
Vivien forced a nervous laugh, tossing her blonde hair over her shoulder. “Mr. Bellarosa, I don’t know what you think you’re doing barging in here, but—”
“Shut your mouth, little girl,” Dante interrupted, his voice dropping an octave into a register that sent a shiver through every executive in the room.
Dante dropped a thick manila envelope onto the center of the conference table. It slid across the polished wood and bumped directly against Vivien’s coffee cup.
“What is this?” Matteo demanded, his voice cracking slightly.
“That is a complete forensic record of every shell company you and your clever little CFO set up to embezzle ten million dollars from your own syndicate accounts over the past two years,” Dante said smoothly, leaning his palms against the table. “And right beside it is the CCTV footage of Ms. Rinaldi breaking into your penthouse to frame your wife for treason so you’d do the dirty work for her.”
Vivien went sheet-white. “That’s a lie! Fabricated!”
“Is it?” Dante smiled coldly. He pulled out his phone, tapped the screen, and placed it on the table.
An audio recording began to play through the boardroom’s high-end surround sound speakers. It was the crystal-clear voice of Vivien Rinaldi talking on an encrypted line to an external federal prosecutor: “...just let Matteo find the files. Once he beats her and locks her away or deals with her, we’ll clean out the accounts, pin the federal racketeering charges on the dead weight, and take over the entire eastern shipping route...”
The entire boardroom erupted into chaotic shouting. Directors stood up, backing away from Matteo and Vivien as if they carried a plague.
Matteo stared at Vivien in absolute horror, his mind finally connecting the devastating puzzle pieces. “You… you set me up?”
“Matteo, listen to me—” Vivien stammered, backing toward the glass wall.
“You used me to destroy my own wife,” Matteo roared, lunging across the table toward her.
Before Matteo could lay his hands on her, Dante’s arm shot out like a steel piston, grabbing Matteo by the collar of his suit jacket and slamming him back down into his leather chair with bone-rattling force.
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“Keep your hands to yourself, boy,” Dante whispered, his face inches from Matteo’s. “You’ve done quite enough beating women for one lifetime.”
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