Bound By Business

Chapter eleven: Unmasking Shadows

The Moretti boardroom was unusually quiet, the stillness broken only by the faint hum of the AC. I sat at my desk, scrolling through another round of investor emails, each one a reminder that the company was still dangling over the edge of a PR cliff.

It had been two days since my trip to Paris and my unsettling meeting with Mia. The messages she’d received confirmed what I already suspected: someone was orchestrating this chaos with precision. But what Mia didn’t know—or refused to say—was who.

I glanced toward Marco’s office, where the frosted glass door was firmly shut. Inside, Marco was having a private meeting with Luca Grimaldi, one of his most trusted executives. Or at least, he used to be.

Through the glass, I could make out Marco’s sharp gestures and Luca’s hunched posture. Whatever they were discussing, it wasn’t friendly.

When the door finally opened, Luca emerged looking pale and visibly rattled. He avoided eye contact as he walked briskly past me, clutching his briefcase like a lifeline.

Marco stepped out moments later, his expression a thundercloud. His gaze flicked to me, and for a brief second, I thought he might say something, but he simply shook his head.

“What was that about?” I asked, unable to keep the curiosity from my voice.

“Nothing you need to worry about,” Marco said curtly.

I raised an eyebrow. “With all due respect, if Luca’s involved in what I think he is, then I do need to worry.”

Marco’s jaw tightened. “Focus on Alex. I’ll deal with Luca.”

Before I could press further, Marco retreated into his office, slamming the door behind him.

By the time I reached Alex’s office later that afternoon, he was pacing the room, a mix of frustration and energy I hadn’t seen from him before.

“Tell me you’ve got something,” he said as soon as I entered.

“Maybe,” I replied, taking a seat. “But I need to know what you remember about that night—the party, the people there, everything.”

Alex groaned, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ve already told you. It was a high-profile event, lots of influencers, PR people, random rich kids. I wasn’t exactly keeping a guest list.”

“Try harder,” I said, pulling out my notebook. “Anything unusual? Anyone acting out of place?”

He thought for a moment, then crossed to his desk, rummaging through a drawer. “Hold on,” he said, pulling out a worn envelope. Inside was a crumpled receipt from a luxury hotel in Paris.

“What’s this?” I asked, taking the receipt from him.

“The hotel suite where the afterparty happened,” Alex explained. “It wasn’t booked under my name, though—it was under some alias. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but now…”

I studied the receipt, my heart racing. “This could be our first real lead.”

Later that evening, I was back in my office, combing through the details of the hotel receipt, when my email pinged with a new message.

My stomach dropped when I saw the subject line: “Next Steps.”

I clicked the email, my breath catching as I read:

“Time’s up. The next video drops tomorrow unless you pay €10 million and publicly announce Alex Moretti’s resignation. Consider this your final warning.”

Attached was another video. My hands trembled as I hit play.

The clip showed Alex and Marco in what appeared to be a heated argument. The audio was distorted, but Marco’s voice was sharp: “You’re not fit to lead this company!” Alex, visibly drunk, shouted back: “Maybe I don’t want your damn company!”

Taken out of context, it looked like the perfect storm—a volatile heir, a furious patriarch, and a company on the brink of collapse.

I immediately forwarded the email to Marco and called Laura in PR. Minutes later, Marco stormed into my office, his face a mask of fury.

“This ends now,” he said, slamming the door behind him.

The boardroom was charged with tension as Marco, Alex, Laura, and I gathered to discuss the blackmailer’s latest threat. Marco’s anger was palpable, his sharp gaze fixed on Alex as if he were solely to blame.

“This is what happens when you behave recklessly,” Marco snapped. “You handed them everything they needed to destroy us.”

“I’m not the one leaking the damn videos,” Alex shot back, his voice rising.

“No, but you made them possible!” Marco countered. “Your carelessness gave them the ammunition, and now we’re all paying for it.”

“Enough!” I said, cutting through the shouting match. Both men turned to me, their glares equally intense.

“We don’t have time for this,” I continued. “The blackmailer isn’t bluffing. If they release this video, it won’t just hurt Alex—it’ll destroy investor confidence. We need to focus on the bigger picture.”

“And what’s your brilliant plan, Carter?” Marco asked sarcastically.

“I’m still working on it,” I admitted, “but I have a lead.” I pulled out the hotel receipt Alex had given me. “This might help us trace who booked the suite that night.”

Marco took the receipt, his eyes narrowing. “And you think this will lead us to the blackmailer?”

“It’s a start,” I said.

The next morning, Alex and I boarded a flight to Paris. Marco wasn’t happy about Alex tagging along, but for once, Alex insisted on being part of the process.

The address on the hotel receipt led us to Evelyn Moreau, a well-connected PR fixer with a reputation for discretion—and trouble.

When we arrived at her office, Evelyn greeted us with a cool smile, her dark eyes sharp and calculating.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” she asked, leaning back in her chair.

“We need information about the party at the Grand Versailles Suite three months ago,” I said.

Evelyn’s smile widened. “Ah, yes. That was quite the event. But I’m afraid I don’t discuss my clients’ affairs.”

“This isn’t a request,” Alex said, stepping forward. His voice was calm, but there was steel behind it. “If you know anything about who’s behind this, you’d better start talking.”

Evelyn raised an eyebrow. “And if I don’t?”

“Then we make sure every client of yours knows you’re connected to the blackmail of one of Italy’s most powerful families,” I said, my tone icy.

For a moment, Evelyn studied us in silence. Then, with a sigh, she opened a drawer and pulled out a folder. “You didn’t hear this from me,” she said, sliding it across the desk.

Inside was a list of names—attendees at the party, as well as details about who booked the suite. My stomach clenched when I saw one name circled in red: Marcus Carter.

The plane ride back to Milan was quiet. Alex sat beside me, staring out the window, his expression unreadable. I clutched the folder in my lap, my mind racing.

Marcus Carter wasn’t just a suspect anymore—he was at the center of this entire mess. And if I told Marco and Alex, it would change everything.

“Something’s bothering you,” Alex said suddenly, breaking the silence.

I hesitated. “It’s nothing.”

“Don’t do that,” he said, turning to face me. “If there’s something I need to know, tell me.”

I met his gaze, the weight of the truth pressing down on me. “Alex, there’s more to this than you realize.”

“Then explain it to me,” he said. “What aren’t you telling me, Carter?”

My throat tightened, and for a moment, I couldn’t find the words. Finally, I said, “Marcus Carter isn’t just involved in this. He’s… he’s my father.”

Alex’s eyes widened, and the shock on his face cut deeper than I expected. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Before I could respond, the pilot’s voice crackled over the intercom, announcing our descent into Milan.

“Not here,” I said quickly. “We’ll talk when we get back.”

But as Alex turned away, his jaw tight, I knew the damage was already done.