CHAPTER FIVE
976 Words
The next morning, Ariella wore black.
Not because of the weather—it was unusually bright for a London morning—but because she needed the armor. Her dress hugged her frame with quiet elegance, her heels clicked with authority, and her eyes were lined in precision. The city was chaos beneath her feet, but she wouldn’t let it swallow her today.
She was back on the executive floor.
The 17th-floor reassignment had vanished overnight. No explanation. No apology. Her nameplate returned. Her login credentials restored.
And on her desk sat a single black envelope.
Inside was a note.
“Now we’re even.
-D"
She stared at it for a long moment before tucking it into her bag. Whatever game Dante Moretti was playing, she’d play it better.
Before she could sit, a knock came at her desk. It was Bianca—one of the sleek assistants from Dante’s inner circle.
“You’re needed in the top conference room,” she said.
Ariella followed.
The boardroom on the 44th floor looked like something out of a thriller movie. Chrome table. Wall-sized screen. Chairs filled with the kind of people who wore suits like second skin. Dante sat at the head of the table, flanked by three senior executives.
As she entered, silence fell.
“This is the intern?” one man asked.
“She’s more than that,” Dante replied without looking up. “Grey, take a seat.”
Ariella slid into the empty chair.
The screen lit up with charts, names, and legal documents. She recognized most of them from the files she’d scoured last night—offshore subsidiaries, shell companies, donation flows. It was a spider’s web, and she was already tangled inside.
“Miss Grey,” Dante said, folding his hands. “You’ve been assigned to something called Operation Crosswind. Effective immediately.”
The name meant nothing, but the tension in the room told her it meant everything.
“We suspect one of our partner firms is funneling assets through charities connected to Luciano Holdings,” he continued. “You will assist in building the internal case file. Quietly.”
“You want me to spy?” she asked, meeting his eyes.
Dante didn’t blink. “I want you to observe. Report. And survive.”
The word caught in her chest.
Survive.
Her first assignment led her to a bland mid-level office in Mayfair—Allan & Devon Associates. On paper, a harmless law consultancy. But the files said otherwise. They’d been quietly linked to eight Moretti contracts over the last five years, most of them “humanitarian support” or “logistics.”
Ariella entered the office with a fabricated title—temporary financial consultant from HQ. No one questioned her.
The building smelled like printer ink and suppressed ambition. She shook hands with tight-lipped analysts, smiled at the secretary with nervous energy, and sat in on two meetings about procurement flows that didn’t match the reports on Moretti servers.
Every move she made, she copied to a secure USB she wore around her neck like a pendant.
At lunch, she stepped outside for air.
London buzzed around her, loud and wet. She leaned against a stone pillar, watching raindrops gather on the café table beside her.
“You’re not bad at this,” said a voice behind her.
She turned sharply.
It was one of Dante’s silent guards from the warehouse—tall, dark coat, the kind of presence that didn't belong on public streets.
“How did you—?”
“Don’t ask,” he said, handing her a small envelope. “New phone. New number. Ditch your old one.”
“What?”
“They’re tracking it.”
Ariella hesitated, then took the burner phone. Her hands were trembling.
She dropped her old phone into a bin across the street and walked away without looking back.
That night, she stood at the window of her flat, burner phone in one hand, wine glass in the other. Below her, London moved like a living organism—indifferent, fast, cold. Her room was quiet, but her mind screamed.
She thought of her father.
Of how he'd always kissed her forehead before leaving for work. Of how he’d taught her to play chess, insisting it wasn’t just a game but a way of thinking. Of how he’d stopped smiling the month before he died.
Her hands curled into fists.
She wouldn’t end like him. Not in shadows. Not in silence.
When the phone buzzed, she jumped.
Message from: Unknown
“You’ll receive a visitor at 10. Let him in.”
She checked the time—9:57.
A knock came at 10:01.
Her breath caught. She grabbed the metal poker from beside the fireplace and moved to the door.
Through the peephole stood a boy. No older than fourteen. Skinny. Pale. Trembling.
She opened the door.
“Miss Grey?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He handed her a flash drive, said nothing else, and ran down the stairs.
She locked the door and shoved the poker back into its place.
Then she plugged the drive into her backup laptop.
What opened was not a spreadsheet.
It was a video.
Her father.
He was sitting in what looked like an interrogation room. Bags under his eyes. Face drawn.
The date in the corner read: September 3rd, 2016. One month before his death.
His voice was weak. “They told me if I signed, Ariella would be safe. I don’t know what’s in the documents. But they said… they said she’d be left alone.”
Tears blurred her vision.
A voice from offscreen asked, “Do you admit your involvement?”
“No,” he said. “But I’ll take the fall.”
The video ended.
Ariella sat frozen. Everything inside her felt hollow.
He hadn’t died in disgrace.
He’d died protecting her
- Writer
