Chapter two
1132 Words
The photo wouldn’t leave her mind.
Even as she moved through the polished corridors of the Moretti Group, completed reports, and joined team meetings, the image of her father standing beside Carlo Moretti haunted her like a ghost tugging at the hem of her thoughts.
He had been smiling.
Ariella had never seen that version of him. Not in real life. The man she remembered had worn silence like armor and shadows like perfume. But in that photo, he had looked alive. Important. Trusted.
So why had he died disgraced?
She didn’t trust the photo’s source, either. It had been slipped under her door. No name. No note beyond that handwritten line: Ask him what really happened.
Ask Dante?
That idea clanged in her head like a warning bell. She barely spoke to the man except for clipped work instructions or the occasional glance in passing. Dante Moretti wasn’t the type of man you asked questions. Especially not questions about buried secrets.
Still, she printed the image in a small size and tucked it into her wallet, just in case.
That morning, Dante’s assistant approached her desk with a cool expression. “Mr. Moretti wants to see you. Now.”
Ariella’s pulse picked up. “Did he say why?”
“No.”
The woman turned and walked off.
Ariella stood, smoothed her blouse, and followed.
Dante’s office, as always, was quiet and expansive. The city spread like a steel ocean outside the glass behind him. He didn’t look up as she entered. He just motioned toward the chair across from him.
“Miss Grey,” he said, finally glancing at her. “How long have you been here now?”
“Two weeks,” she replied cautiously.
“And in two weeks, you’ve accessed more sensitive reports than most interns do in two months. Why is that?”
Ariella’s heart skipped. “I was assigned the Sicuro files, sir.”
“Were you?” He arched a brow. “Or did you assign them to yourself?”
She felt the edge of a trap.
“I was given access through the system.”
“But not by me.” He leaned back. “Strange.”
She didn’t speak.
He rose and walked around the desk, stopping in front of the floor-to-ceiling window. “This company is a fortress, Miss Grey. Everything in it — every file, every name — exists behind layers of permission. If someone is feeding you information, you need to tell me now.”
“I’m not being fed anything,” she said, too quickly.
He turned. “Then someone is testing you. Or using you.”
Her stomach turned cold. “I don’t know who.”
Dante stepped closer. Not threatening, but present. Unavoidable.
“I don’t believe in coincidences,” he said. “And you’re a very specific kind of coincidence.”
Ariella held his gaze. “What does that mean?”
“You show up here, with top credentials, a clean record, and access to files linked to my father’s generation. And you just happen to stumble onto buried accounts that haven’t been touched in ten years?” He paused. “That’s a story I don’t buy.”
“Maybe I’m just good at my job.”
His expression didn’t change. “Or maybe you’re something else.”
The room buzzed with a silence that felt thick enough to drown in.
Then — unexpectedly — he looked away.
“I’m assigning you to a new project,” he said, walking back to his desk. “It’s an internal audit of the Luciano contracts. You’ll report directly to me.”
Her breath caught. “Luciano?”
He looked up. “Is that a problem?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Good,” he said. “You start today.”
Ariella left the office with her pulse in her ears.
Luciano.
The name from the files. The name connected to the offshore firm. The name whispered in rumors of old mafia wars.
Why would Dante want her on this project?
Unless… he was watching her. Testing her. Or giving her rope to hang herself.
She sat at her desk, opened the new folder, and froze.
The first document was a legal brief. A negotiation contract between Moretti Group and an entity called Luciano Imports, signed eight years ago.
But it wasn’t the company that startled her.
It was the witness signature.
Harold Grey.
Her father.
She stared at the signature as her throat dried.
He had witnessed the signing of this deal.
Her father had worked directly with the Lucianos? But that wasn’t possible. He had always denied connections to the mafia, had always insisted his work was clean, even after the media destroyed him.
Either he had lied.
Or someone had rewritten the truth.
Later that day, she took the elevator down to the underground archive. She needed to see the full contract—not the digital scan. Paper didn’t lie. Paper held ink and smudges and fingerprints.
The archive was cold, fluorescent-lit, and silent. She found the file room, section D-7, and unlocked the metal cabinet marked “Historical Contracts.”
The folder was there.
As she opened it, footsteps echoed in the hallway behind her.
She turned.
A man stood at the entrance.
He wore a security badge, but something felt… off. His eyes lingered too long on her face.
“Can I help you?” she asked, keeping her tone calm.
He smiled — too slowly. “Didn’t know anyone still used the archive.”
“I needed a hard copy.”
He took a step forward. “Need help finding anything?”
“No, thanks. I’ve got it.”
He didn’t move.
She slipped the folder under her arm. “I’ll lock up on my way out.”
For a moment, they just stared at each other. Then he nodded and walked away.
Only when the door clicked shut did she let herself breathe.
Back at her flat that night, she studied the original contract. Her father’s signature was authentic — unmistakable in its loops and angles. But there was something else scribbled in the margin. Faded, almost invisible.
A date.
March 3rd, 2014.
And next to it: “Never again.”
A chill slid down her spine.
He had written it in pen, barely visible, like he had wanted to remember — or warn himself.
What happened in 2014?
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
“Stop digging or you’ll end up like him.”
Her heart stopped.
The message vanished a second later. Deleted. Auto-wiped.
She stared at the screen, her breath caught between fear and fury.
They knew.
Someone knew she was looking.
And they wanted her gone.
But Ariella Grey had come too far to run now.
- Writer
