Page 38 of Marrying His Son’s Ex (Forbidden Kings #3)

KASI

This family gathering feels like a job interview where the wrong answer gets you killed.

Fifteen men in expensive suits fill the main dining room, their voices mixing into a low rumble of power and privilege.

I recognize some faces from previous meetings. Tony Benedetti with his calculating stare, Steve Moretti still charming after all this time, old Lorenzo Torrino who treats me like a granddaughter he’s proud of.

Others are new. Distant cousins, business partners, men whose names carry weight in circles I’m still learning to navigate.

“Gentlemen,” Alaric announces from the head of the table, “my wife has some proposals regarding our international operations.”

All conversation stops. Fifteen pairs of eyes turn toward me with expressions ranging from curiosity to skepticism to outright hostility.

“Mrs. Moretti,” Tony Benedetti says with his trademark smile that never reaches his eyes, “we’re eager to hear your thoughts.”

I stand, the folder of documents I’ve prepared clutched in my hands. Three weeks of research, financial projections, and risk assessments. If I’m going to be part of this family, I need to prove I belong here.

“The European expansion has stalled because we’re approaching it like Americans trying to do business in foreign markets,” I begin. “We need to think like Europeans who happen to be based in America.”

“Explain,” Steve requests.

“Take the German operations. Klaus Mueller values precision, transparency, and long-term stability. We’ve been offering him quick profits and aggressive timelines. That’s not what motivates German businessmen.”

I pull out the first set of documents, spreading them across the table. “These revised contracts focus on sustainable growth, detailed quality control measures, and partnership benefits that extend beyond immediate profit.”

Lorenzo Torrino leans forward, studying the papers with sharp eyes that belie his advanced age. “You rewrote Klaus’s contracts?”

“I restructured them to align with German business culture. Same basic terms, different presentation.”

“And Klaus approved these changes?”

“He signed yesterday. Full partnership agreement, expanded territory rights, guaranteed exclusivity for five years.”

Murmurs ripple around the table. Klaus Mueller has been delaying decisions for months, driving everyone crazy with his cautious approach.

“What about the French situation?” someone asks from the far end of the table.

“Similar principle, different execution. French business culture values intellectual sophistication and personal relationships over pure profit margins.”

I distribute another set of documents. “Instead of offering them territory to control, we offer them shared expertise. They become consultants for our Mediterranean operations, getting paid for their knowledge while we gain access to their networks.”

“Clever,” Tony admits grudgingly.

“The Russians are more direct. They want to know exactly what they’re getting and what they’re giving up. No ambiguity, no hidden clauses. Brutal honesty in exchange for absolute loyalty.”

For the next hour, I walk them through strategies for every major international contact. The men ask pointed questions, testing my knowledge and logic. Some challenges feel genuine, others seem designed to make me stumble.

I don’t stumble.

“Impressive work,” Lorenzo finally declares. “You’ve solved problems we’ve been wrestling with for years.”

“Thank you.”

“How did you learn so much about international business practices?” Steve asks.

“College coursework, personal research, and paying attention during negotiations. Plus, being multilingual helps you understand cultural nuances that don’t translate directly.”

“Six languages, isn’t it?” Tony’s tone suggests he’s already investigated my background thoroughly.

“Seven, actually. I’ve been working on Mandarin.”

“Of course you have.” His smile turns genuine for the first time today. “Anything else we should know about your capabilities?”

“I’ve identified several new revenue streams we’re not currently exploiting. Legitimate businesses that could launder money while generating real profits.”

“Such as?”

“Art galleries, wine importing, luxury car dealerships. High-end businesses that deal in cash, have subjective pricing, and attract wealthy clients who don’t ask uncomfortable questions.”

The room falls silent as they process this. I’ve just outlined ways to clean dirty money through respectable enterprises, showing them I understand both sides of their operations.

“Mrs. Moretti,” Tony says slowly, “I believe we underestimated you.”

After the meeting ends, several men approach individually to discuss specific projects. Lorenzo wants my help with shipping logistics. Steve needs advice on French regulatory compliance. Even Tony grudgingly admits my proposals have merit.

By evening, I feel like I’ve passed some invisible test.

“That was well done,” Alaric tells me as we walk to our room. “You impressed them.”

“They’re easier to impress than I expected.”

“Don’t underestimate what you accomplished today. Most of those men have been skeptical about your role in the family. Now they see you as an asset.”

“Good. That was the point.”

In our bedroom, I settle at the small desk to review documents for tomorrow’s follow-up meetings. Financial records, contract amendments, shipping manifests. The usual paperwork that keeps criminal enterprises running smoothly.

That’s when I see it.

My signature on a document I don’t remember signing.

The paper is a financial transfer authorization, moving two million dollars from one account to another. The signature at the bottom is clearly mine—“K. Moretti” in my distinctive handwriting.

But something’s wrong.

I run my fingertip over the signature, studying the ink patterns. The curl on the K is off. Too tight, too precise. The pressure is too heavy, like someone was trying too hard to get it right.

I flip through more documents, finding three additional signatures that look like mine but feel wrong. Account transfers, business registrations, shipping authorizations. All bearing my name in handwriting that’s almost but not quite right.

“Alaric,” I call softly.

“What is it?”

“Look at this.” I hold up the financial transfer document. “Do you remember me signing this?”

He examines the paper, frowning. “No. When was it dated?”

“Two weeks ago. But I don’t remember signing any financial transfers.”

“Maybe you signed it during one of the business meetings? There were a lot of documents that day.”

“Maybe.” But even as I say it, I know that’s not right. I’m careful about what I sign, especially financial documents. I would remember authorizing a two-million-dollar transfer.

I find three additional signatures that look like mine but feel wrong. Account transfers, business registrations, shipping authorizations. Some dated within the past month, others going back years—all the way to when I was still with Dante.

“Alaric, look at this.” I spread the papers across the desk. “These older ones are dated from a year ago. Two years ago. Back when I was with Dante.”

“You think he was forging your signature too?”

“I think someone’s been using my identity for years. And recently, someone started doing it again.” I pull out the other suspicious documents, spreading them across the desk. “And what about these?”

Alaric studies each one, his expression growing darker. “I don’t remember you signing any of these.”

“Because I didn’t.”

“You’re sure?”

“Look at the signatures. The handwriting is close. Someone’s been forging my signature.”

“Who would have access to documents requiring your signature?”

“Anyone with administrative access to our accounts. Lawyers, accountants, senior family members.”

We stare at each other as the implications sink in. Someone close to us, someone with intimate access to our business operations, has been using my identity to authorize transactions I know nothing about.

“How much money are we talking about?” I ask.

Alaric adds up the amounts on the four documents. “Eight million dollars.”

“Eight million dollars that went where?”

“I’ll have Benedetto trace the account numbers tomorrow.”

“What if there are more documents? What if this has been going on longer than we think?”

“Then we find out who’s responsible and we handle it.”

The cold finality in his voice reminds me exactly who I married. Alaric Moretti doesn’t just fire employees who steal from him. He buries them.

“This could be connected to Marco’s reports about the West Coast problems,” I say. “Maybe someone’s systematically destabilizing our operations.”

“Or maybe someone’s building a nest egg for when they make their move against the family.”

Either way, we have a traitor in our inner circle. Someone who’s been stealing from us while sitting at our dinner table, attending family meetings, pretending loyalty while planning betrayal.

I gather the forged documents into a neat stack. “What do we do?”

“We set a trap and see who takes the bait.”

“What kind of trap?”

Alaric’s expression is grim. “Leave that to me.”