Page 39

ALESSIO

The skyline of Chicago glints through the hallway windows of Clive & Associates like the blade of a knife.

I’ve been here before, this building, this firm. But today, it’s different.

Today, I’m not the Marchetti heir charming clients over cocktails. I’m not the reckless playboy with a smirk and a temper.

Today, I’m the man who left the woman he loves.

And I’m the man who’s going to make it right.

The silence in the lobby is thick.

The receptionist barely makes eye contact as she leads us to the boardroom, and I feel it already, the shift. The way they’ve erased Sophie. Like she was never part of this place. Like she never dedicated her life to this place at some point in her career.

They sucked whatever they needed from her and discarded her like it was nothing.

My jaw ticks as I step inside.

The boardroom is sleek, glass-walled and cold. A shark tank.

And Eva? She’s the apex predator waiting at the head of the table, polished in a white blazer and blood-red lipstick.

She stands but doesn’t offer a hand. "Mr. Marchetti. We weren’t expecting a visit."

"Clearly."

My attorney, Marcus, a sharp-tongued man in his fifties with a folder full of ammunition, takes the seat to my right.

I unbutton my suit jacket. "Let’s skip the pleasantries. You and I both know why I’m here."

Her smile is razor-thin. "Then by all means, enlighten me."

I slide a copy of her article across the table. "This isn’t journalism. This is personal."

She lifts a brow, unbothered. "I report on powerful people abusing power. Your family has a long, colorful history."

"And Sophie? What did she ever do to you?"

Something flickers in her expression. Just a flash of something darker. Bitterness. Old hurt.

"A casualty of war. She climbed a ladder she didn’t build."

My hands curl into fists under the table. "She earned her place ten times over. Everything she did for this firm, for this merger. She gave her loyalty to this place, and you repaid her with betrayal."

I toss a folder on the table, a stack of signed affidavits, timelines, communications, proof that contradicts her article’s most damning claims.

"You’ve got twenty-four hours to issue a retraction. Public. Prominent. Or I’ll take this to court and to every media outlet that’ll run the truth."

Her gaze doesn’t waver, but I see it now, the crack. The faintest tremor of doubt.

"You think this will fix her? She’s broken. And I didn’t do that. You did."

That lands like a punch, but I don’t flinch because I know she's baiting me. Trying to get a reaction out to use against me.

"That’s between her and me. Not you. And don’t think you don’t have any blame on anything that happens to her, because what you did was twist a knife in her back."

The room is suffocating with tension.

Eva sits with that same smug, sleepless smile stretched tight across her face, like it’s the only thing holding her together.

Next to her, the publisher of the media house flips through documents, flanked by corporate lawyers on either side.

"You ran a hit piece full of inaccuracies, and you’ll retract every word. Or I will personally make it my mission not just to go after you personally, but also this entire firm. And I will bring you down, With the truth. Because unlike you, I’m not all full of smoke, mirrors, and spiteful lies."

Eva leans forward, her voice a shade colder than ice. "I ran the truth. I even have corroborating information. From the woman you impregnated. The public deserves to know who you really are."

My stomach lurches for a second, hearing Sophie twisted into her accusations.

Did Sophie actually talk to her?

No. I know her. I trust her. I trust her with my fucking life.

I lean forward, voice low and lethal. "You left out the part where you’re emotionally compromised. Where you have your little vendetta going against me."

Her jaw ticks. A crack in the facade.

I don't let her recover.

"This isn’t about journalism. This is about my family. About my home. About something personal."

I toss another thin file onto the table. Travel records, emails, photos. Proof that cuts deeper than any article.

"You visited our Tuscan estate last year claiming we had stolen from you. And when the courts gave us reason, you raised hell at a private event and got kicked off the property. Ring a bell?"

I swipe to the video on my tablet, security footage showing Eva, red-faced and screaming, being escorted out by guards.

The publisher shifts uncomfortably. The lead attorney stiffens.

Eva’s face drains of color, but her mouth stays twisted into a sneer as the video recording plays.

" Spectacle. The only spectacle here is your family, and your refusal to acknowledge what’s rightfully mine. "

Her gaze flicks to the publisher as the video continues.

" My grandfather’s name was on that land title too. You think you can erase that? Erase me? "

The publisher narrows his eyes. "What the fuck, Eva?"

"They’re lying like they always do. That's bullshit."

"No," the lead attorney says sharply. "It’s conflict of interest. You used your position here to try to settle a personal vendetta."

Silence slices the room wide open.

And for the first time, Eva doesn’t look so invincible.

She bolts up from her chair, hands planted on the polished glass table.

"You think this is about some article? Your family destroyed mine. My grandfather worked those vineyards! My father lost everything! And you—" She jabs a finger toward me, eyes wild now. "—you get to reap the rewards of the Salvatore-Valentina deal like you earned it?"

Her voice rises, unhinged. "You all walk around like royalty with your money, women, and legacy. Now I’m stripping you bare the same way you stripped him."

The publisher leans back in his chair, jaw slack. "Jesus Christ, Eva..."

"I want you to feel powerless. To watch everything slip through your fingers. Like my family did. Like I did."

The room is dead silent except for the sound of her rapid, unsteady breathing.

The publisher finally speaks, slow and tight. "I was unaware of any of this. This isn’t just unethical, it’s actionable. Legally. You’ve exposed us to serious liability. You’re done here.”

He turns to the security guards waiting just outside. “Escort her out.”

Eva screams, lunging toward me as the guards step in. "You don’t get a happy ending, Alessio! You don’t get to be the hero! I’ll destroy you. I’ll destroy all of you!"

The guards seize her arms, pulling her back as she thrashes and shrieks. Her voice cracks with rage, spewing out curses as her heels skid against the polished floor. “Your family stole everything! You’re all liars!”

Tears streaking down her face.

The doors swing shut behind her, the echoes of her hysteria lingering through the hallways.

But I don’t move. Don’t flinch.

My fists clench under the table, the storm in my chest quiet but lethal.

This was never just about Sophie.

It was always going to come back to my family.

The publisher leans across the table, rubbing his temples.

“We’ll issue a full retraction. Prominent placement. Public apology. We’ll do everything we can to make this right.”

I nod once, but the fire in my chest doesn’t dim.

Not yet.

As I gather my files, something gnaws at the back of my mind. A name. A face.

Cash Carson.

The smug bastard who cost Sophie her last job, who tried to take advantage of her while she was managing his PR campaign.

I glance toward a junior assistant hovering near the door. “Quick question. Does this firm still manage PR for Cash Carson?”

He blinks, caught off guard. “Uh, yes.”

I nod slowly. I still remember in detail Sophie’s voice, sharp and hollow, as she recounted how she lost her job.

The man at the center of it all? Cash fucking Carson.

“Is he here today?”

He pauses, hesitating. “Uh, yes.

He’s... in Conference Room B.”

Marcus groans beside me. “Alessio…Don’t.”

But I’m already stepping toward the door, voice flat. “He’s overdue for a conversation.”

The hallway is quiet as I approach the door labeled Conference B. I slip inside without knocking.

Cash Carson’s mid-sentence, sprawled across a leather chair like it’s a throne. He’s tall and lanky, tattoos crawling up his arms to his collarbone, some faded, others fresh. He’s got on a flannel shirt over a white tee, jeans ripped with deliberate care.

A bottle of whiskey seats on the table beside him, his glass half-full.

He’s leaning a little too close to a junior associate, whispering something that makes her smile freeze.

She shifts in her seat.

He touches her thigh.

That’s all I need.

I stride forward and grab the back of his flannel, yanking him upright.

"How ya doing, asshole? This is for touching that nice lady just now without permission."

I land a brutal punch to his gut. He winces as he doubles over, winded and clutching his stomach. His jaw laxed.

With the perfect opening, my fist connects hard with his jaw.

The punch lands flawlessly, causing the asshole to slam against the conference table, whiskey crashing to the floor, shouts erupting behind me.

I stand over him. "And that was for Sophie, you piece of shit."

People start rushing into the conference room.

As I walk out, I pass the publisher.

"You should really care more about your female employees than the pieces of shit who abuse and harass them." I don’t wait for anyone to try and stop me.

I don’t care about fallout.

My pulse pounds for one reason only.

I’m ready. I’m going home.