If I Could Hate You

Chapter 14: The FitzGerald Crucifixion

The morning after the horror at headquarters, I knew the city would not sleep on it. Manhattan never did. Word spread faster than fire, and by the time I reached the front doors of the FitzGerald building, it was clear the wolves had gathered.

Flashbulbs popped in my face before I even crossed the marble steps. The barricades the police had set up the night before were useless now. A sea of reporters and photographers pushed against them, straining with microphones extended like spears and cameras flashing like lightning strikes.

“Michael FitzGerald, do you have enemies?”

“Who was the victim?”

“Are the FitzGeralds safe?”

“Is your family being targeted?”

I clenched my jaw and kept walking, the practiced pace of a man who had walked through storms before. My suit was pressed, my tie was knotted perfectly, and my face was the same blank mask the public had come to expect from me. But the smell of blood from last night had followed me into my dreams, and now it lingered still, an invisible shadow whispering in my ears.

My father had been right. This was a declaration of war.

“Michael,” another voice shouted above the frenzy, “is it true you were seen with a woman at the crime scene? Is she your girlfriend?”

That one stopped me, not in body but in mind. The words sliced through the noise and dragged me back to the sight of Sophia trembling in my arms, her tears soaking into my shirt, her body pressed against mine like she was trying to anchor herself to something that would not crumble. My mask almost slipped, and for the fraction of a second, I knew one photographer had caught it.

I forced my voice steady, projecting calm authority. “The FitzGerald Corporation mourns the loss of one of our employees. This was a cowardly act meant to spread fear. But let me assure you, we will not be intimidated. Our family and our business are stronger than any threat. The police are investigating, and we are cooperating fully.”

A hundred more questions were thrown at me, each more venomous than the last. “Is your family involved with organized crime?” “Was this a mob killing?” “Will you step down?” “Who is the mysterious woman?”

I said nothing more. Silence was my weapon. Silence was control.

The cameras kept flashing as my driver forced a path through the mob. When I finally slid into the backseat of the car, I shut the door harder than I should have. The noise dulled instantly, but it did not leave my head. I rubbed my temples and exhaled slowly.

Sophia.

The sound of her sobs still echoed. The way she had clung to me as if I was her only lifeline. And then her father’s eyes, sharp as blades, cutting into me with suspicion and disdain. Detective Marcus Bennett. A man who had never liked the Fitzgerald name, and who now had more reason than ever to hate me.

I dragged a hand down my face. She should never have been there. She should never have touched me. And yet, when she did, something inside me had shifted, something I had spent years building walls around.

The car pulled into the underground garage, and by the time I reached the executive boardroom on the top floor, I had shoved every thought of her back into the locked box where they belonged.

The board was already waiting. Ethan sat at the head of the table, his eyes stormy but collected. The other executives shifted uneasily, their voices a low buzz that quieted the moment I entered.

“Michael,” Ethan said, standing. “We need to address the situation immediately.”

I nodded and took my seat. The massive glass windows behind us showed the city skyline, but today it felt less like a view and more like a thousand eyes watching us.

One of the older board members, Mr. Halpern, spoke first. “This attack is already plastered across every news outlet. They are calling it the FitzGerald Crucifixion. The symbolism, the brutality—this is more than an attack on a worker. This is an attack on the family name.”

A younger executive chimed in, his voice trembling slightly. “We cannot ignore the speculation. The press is whispering about mob ties. If we do not control the narrative, we risk losing investors, contracts, maybe even federal scrutiny.”

The room filled with noise as everyone spoke at once.

Ethan slammed his hand on the table. “Enough.” His voice cut through like steel. “Michael, tell them what you told me last night.”

I leaned forward, keeping my voice even. “This was not random. This was a message. Someone wants to rattle us, to make us look weak. But Fitzgerald does not bow to threats. We will tighten security. We will support law enforcement in their investigation. And most importantly, we will project strength.”

Mr. Halpern frowned. “Project strength is one thing. But what about reality? Do we even know who we are dealing with?”

I hesitated, thinking of my father’s ragged voice on the phone, his chilling certainty. Yes, we knew. We had always known. But not everyone in this room needed to know the full truth.

“Whoever it is,” I said slowly, “they underestimated us. That will be their first mistake. And their last.”

Ethan met my eyes, a silent understanding passing between us. He knew what I was leaving unsaid. He knew who was behind this.

Another executive cleared her throat. “And what about the… woman? The press caught images of her. They are already speculating.”

My blood ran cold. Sophia’s face. Her body pressed into mine. The photographs would be everywhere by now.

“She is an employee,” I said sharply, the words biting out of me before I could soften them. “Nothing more.”

The lie burned my tongue, but it was necessary.

The executives nodded, some relieved, others skeptical. Ethan studied me, his eyes narrowing, but he said nothing.

The meeting dragged on, filled with numbers and strategies, but my mind drifted. I kept seeing her face, pale with shock, and the way she had whispered “Dad” in disbelief. Her father’s grip on her wrist, his glare cutting into me as he dragged her away.

By the time the meeting ended, my head throbbed. I stepped back into my office, closed the door, and finally let myself breathe. I poured a glass of whiskey, even though it was barely noon, and sank into my chair.

The city outside was still buzzing with chaos. Paparazzi would be at every corner, waiting for me to slip, waiting for me to confirm their suspicions. But the real war was not with them.

The real war had already begun.

And Sophia was standing too close to the fire.