(Damien Cross)
I stand in my office, staring at the portrait on the wall. My father's face glares back, all sharp cheekbones and cold eyes, like he's judging me even now. The frame's gold, gaudy, a lie of a legacy. He left me nothing but debts and a name I've spent years erasing. I grab the edge of the canvas and yank it down. It crashes to the floor, the frame splintering.
"Good riddance," I mutter, kicking it aside. The office is quiet, just the hum of the city outside my window. I don't need his ghost watching me. Not today.
My phone buzzes on the desk. It's Evelyn, my business partner. I answer, already moving to the bar in the corner to pour a drink. "What's up, Ev?"
"Financial advisor's here," she says, her voice clipped. "You sure you want to do this now?"
"He's got answers I need," I say, swirling the whiskey. "Bring him in."
A minute later, the door opens, and Evelyn walks in with a skinny guy in a cheap suit. He's sweating, his tie crooked. Evelyn's in her usual sharp blazer, her blonde bob perfect, but her eyes are tight, like she's bracing for a fight.
"Mr. Cross," the guy stammers, "I'm Paul Whitaker. I, I don't know why I'm here."
"Sit," I say, pointing to the chair across my desk. He does, fast. I lean back, sipping my drink. "Paul, you worked for me last year. Handled my accounts for the AI startup, right?"
He nods, his hands twisting in his lap. "Y-yes, sir."
"Then you fed my numbers to the Moretti Group," I say, my voice low. "Don't lie. I traced the leak."
Paul's face goes white. "I didn't, I mean, I, "
"Stop," I snap, slamming my glass down. Whiskey sloshes onto the desk. "You sold me out. I want names. Who at Moretti paid you?"
Evelyn steps forward, her heels clicking. "Damien, maybe we should, "
"I got this, Ev," I cut her off, not looking away from Paul. "Talk, Whitaker. Now."
He swallows hard. "It was… Marco D'Angelo. Their CFO. He offered me fifty grand to pass your financials. Said it was just business."
I lean forward, my jaw tight. "And you thought I wouldn't find out?"
"I'm sorry," he whispers, his voice shaking. "I needed the money."
I stand, towering over him. "You're done in this city, Paul. Get out."
He scrambles up and bolts for the door. Evelyn sighs as it slams shut. "You didn't have to scare him that bad," she says, crossing her arms.
"He's lucky I didn't break his nose," I say, grabbing my laptop. "Marco D'Angelo. That's a start. Pull everything we have on him."
She nods but doesn't move. "Damien, this Moretti thing… it's personal for you. Why?"
I don't answer. I can't. Not without digging up memories I've buried deep. Instead, I open my laptop and start typing. "Just do it, Ev."
An hour later, I'm alone, scrolling through files Evelyn sent. Marco D'Angelo's been with the Moretti Group for decades, loyal as a dog. But there's something else, emails, buried in a server I shouldn't have access to. Moretti's making a move on NeuralNet, an AI firm I've been eyeing for months. They're pushing to buy a minority stake, fast and quiet.
"Damn it," I mutter, rubbing my jaw. NeuralNet's tech could put my company light-years ahead. If Moretti gets it, I'm screwed. I fire off a message to my team: Double our offer on NeuralNet. Now.
A knock at the door pulls me away. It's my brother, Julian, looking too clean-cut in his pressed suit. His blue eyes, softer than mine, scan the room, landing on the broken portrait. "Redecorating?" he asks, smirking.
"Something like that," I say, shutting my laptop. "What do you want, Julian?"
He steps inside, hands in his pockets. "Got an invite for you. International Tech Summit. Next week in Dubai. Thought you'd want to know."
I raise an eyebrow. "Since when do you care about my schedule?"
He shrugs. "It's a big deal. Moretti Group's one of the sponsors this year."
My stomach twists. "Moretti's funding it?"
"Partially," he says, leaning against the desk. "Their name's all over the promo. You going?"
I don't answer right away. Moretti's everywhere lately, leaking my data, chasing my deals, now this summit. It's not a coincidence. "Yeah," I say finally. "I'm going."
Julian nods, but there's something in his eyes I don't like. He's always been too smooth, too diplomatic. "Good luck," he says, heading for the door. "You'll need it."
That night, I'm back at my penthouse, the city lights sprawling below. I'm on my third whiskey, pacing the living room. My mind's stuck on Moretti, on Marco, on NeuralNet. But it's not just business. It's a memory, one I've tried to forget.
I'm ten, maybe eleven, hiding behind the couch in our old house. Dad's yelling, his voice raw. A woman's there, her heels clicking on the hardwood. She's tall, with silver-blond hair and eyes like knives. "You're a fool, Richard," she says. "You think you can walk away from this?"
"I'm done," Dad snaps. "Take your money and go."
She laughs, sharp and cold. "You'll regret this, Cross. We always get what we want."
The door slams, and she's gone. I never saw her again, but I'd know her face anywhere. Vivienne Moretti. Years later, I found out who she was. The queen of the Moretti empire. The woman who ruined my father.
I shake off the memory, my grip tightening on the glass. Vivienne's still out there, pulling strings. But I'm not a kid anymore. I'm coming for her.
The next morning, I'm at my desk, coffee in hand, when Evelyn barges in. "You see this?" she says, tossing a tablet onto the desk. It's an article about the Tech Summit, with a photo of the Moretti heir, Isabella Moretti. She's all elegance, dark hair falling over her shoulders, gray eyes sharp enough to cut glass.
"She's leading their delegation," Evelyn says, her voice tight. "Word is, she's pushing the Horizon Tech merger. The one your dad was obsessed with."
I freeze. "My dad?"
"Yeah," she says, frowning. "I dug into it. Richard Cross was all over Horizon's early funding. Then he pulled out, right before he… you know."
Died. She doesn't say it, but it hangs there. I grab the tablet, zooming in on Isabella's face. She's young, maybe mid-twenties, but there's steel in her expression. Like she's been forged in fire.
"Interesting," I say, my mind racing. Vivienne's daughter, running her game. And my dad's old project? Too many connections.
Evelyn crosses her arms. "You're not thinking of crashing the summit, are you?"
I smirk, leaning back. "Oh, I'm doing more than crashing it. I'm winning it."
She rolls her eyes but doesn't argue. "Just don't start a war, Damien."
"No promises," I say, already pulling up the summit's agenda. Isabella Moretti's name is everywhere, panels, keynotes, meetings. She's not just attending. She's the star.
Later, I'm alone again, the tablet still open to Isabella's profile. Her bio's impressive: Ivy League, fast-tracked to lead Moretti's empire, flawless track record. But it's her eyes that get me. They're not Vivienne's. They're… haunted. Like she's carrying something heavy.
I lean back, my fingers drumming on the desk. Vivienne's been playing me for years, and now she's sending her daughter to the summit. To what? Finish me off? Steal NeuralNet? Or something bigger?
"So, they sent the daughter to finish what the mother started," I say to the empty room, my voice low. The game's on, and I don't lose.