Bound By Business

Chapter eight: under siege

The Moretti headquarters was under siege.

The front entrance swarmed with reporters, their cameras flashing as soon as anyone approached the doors. Microphones hovered above the heads of employees trying to slip in unnoticed, while journalists shouted questions over one another, each vying for the next breaking headline.

“Mr. Moretti, any comment on the leaked tape?”

“Is Alex Moretti stepping down as heir?”

“Who’s the woman in the video?”

I stood at the boardroom window on the top floor, watching the chaos below. My phone buzzed endlessly on the desk behind me, a mix of media inquiries, investor demands, and increasingly frantic emails from the PR team.

Behind me, Marco paced the room like a caged animal. His anger radiated off him in waves, his sharp movements punctuating the tension.

“They’re treating this like the fall of an empire,” he growled.

“That’s because, to them, it is,” I said, not turning from the window.

Marco’s steps faltered. “Sophia, this cannot go on. Our silence is feeding their narrative. The longer this story dominates the media, the harder it will be to recover.”

“I’m well aware,” I said, spinning on my heel to face him. “But what exactly do you expect me to say? That it’s fake? That it’s harmless? The moment we address it, we validate it as something worth their attention.”

Marco’s jaw tightened. “You’re the face of control here, Sophia. Figure it out. I want the narrative back in our hands before the end of the day.”

I sighed. “And Alex?”

Marco waved his hand dismissively. “Keep him in line. I don’t care how. Just make sure he doesn’t make things worse.”

Finding Alex was never difficult. The heir to Moretti Real Estate had a way of drawing attention, even when he wasn’t trying.

This time, I found him in the lounge attached to his private office, sprawled on a leather couch with his phone in one hand and a glass of whiskey in the other.

“You’re drinking at ten in the morning?” I asked, shutting the door behind me.

He glanced up, his expression unreadable. “Relax. It’s only my third.”

I crossed the room, snatching the glass from his hand and setting it on the coffee table. “You don’t get to check out, Alex. Not now.”

“I’m not checking out,” he said, his voice sharp. “I’m biding my time until you and Marco tell me what the hell I’m supposed to do.”

“You’re supposed to act like you give a damn,” I snapped. “This isn’t about you anymore—it’s about the company. About the thousands of people who rely on Moretti Real Estate for their livelihoods.”

Alex sat up, his eyes narrowing. “Don’t act like you’re the only one who cares about this place, Carter.”

“Then prove it!” I shot back, stepping closer. “Because all I’ve seen is you making excuses for a video that, frankly, never should’ve existed in the first place.”

He stood abruptly, closing the space between us in an instant. “You think I wanted this? You think I set myself up to be plastered across every screen in Milan like some cheap tabloid scandal?”

I didn’t back down, even as his voice rose. “Maybe not, but you handed them the ammunition. You walk through life like nothing can touch you, Alex. Well, guess what? It just did.”

His jaw clenched, and for a moment, the fire in his eyes dimmed into something darker. “You don’t get it, do you? No matter what I do, people like you and Marco will always see me as the spoiled screw-up who can’t do anything right.”

“That’s not true,” I said quietly.

“Isn’t it?” he challenged, his voice softer now. “You think I don’t see the way you look at me? Like I’m a liability you have to manage instead of a person who could actually help.”

The heat in his words caught me off guard, leaving me speechless for once.

Alex shook his head, turning away. “It doesn’t matter. Let’s just focus on cleaning this up, right? That’s what you’re good at.”

I opened my mouth to respond, but the sound of my phone buzzing on the coffee table interrupted. I snatched it up, my stomach sinking as I read the subject line of the new email: “Time’s Ticking.”

I opened the email with a trembling hand. It was brief but brutal:

“The first video was just the beginning. There’s more where that came from. If you want to make this problem go away, wire €5 million to the attached account within 48 hours. Otherwise, the next release will ruin Moretti Real Estate for good. Tick tock.”

Attached was a short clip—another portion of the same night, showing Alex in what appeared to be a heated argument with the same woman from the first video. The angle and timing made it look far worse than it likely was, and the implications were damning.

“What is it?” Alex asked, stepping closer when he noticed the look on my face.

I handed him the phone wordlessly. As he read, his face darkened, his free hand curling into a fist at his side.

“They’re bluffing,” he said through gritted teeth. “They won’t release anything else.”

“You don’t know that,” I said, my voice steady despite the panic clawing at my chest. “This isn’t just about embarrassing you anymore, Alex. It’s about tearing down the entire company.”

He scoffed. “And you think paying them off will stop it?”

“No,” I admitted, “but ignoring it could make things worse. If we’re going to fight this, we need a plan.”

“And what do you suggest, Carter?” he asked bitterly. “Go to Marco? Call the cops? That’ll just make it a bigger story.”

“We start with figuring out who’s behind this,” I said firmly. “If we can trace the blackmailer, we might be able to cut them off before they can do more damage.”

Alex didn’t respond immediately. He stared at the email for a long moment before finally nodding. “Fine. But we do it quietly. Marco doesn’t need to know until we’re sure who we’re dealing with.”

Back in my office, I dove into the blackmailer’s email, searching for any clues that could point us in the right direction. The account number was based offshore, making it difficult to trace without involving law enforcement. But there was something about the phrasing of the email that nagged at me. It felt personal, calculated.

It didn’t take long for my mind to wander to Marcus Carter—my estranged father. His name had been popping into my thoughts more often lately, even without proof of his involvement. This kind of calculated sabotage was exactly his style.

I opened a private folder on my computer, one I’d started a few months ago after hearing whispers about Marcus in the real estate world again. The file was sparse—rumors of offshore dealings, sightings in Paris and London, whispers of partnerships with unsavory business figures.

If he really was behind this, it wasn’t just about Alex. It was about Marco. And, by extension, me.

The next morning, I presented what little I’d uncovered to Alex. He sat on the edge of my desk, his arms crossed as I explained the potential connection to Marcus Carter.

“So you’re telling me this could be your dad’s doing?” Alex asked, his expression skeptical.

“I’m saying it’s possible,” I clarified. “But until we have proof, we can’t make any accusations.”

Alex let out a sharp laugh. “Convenient. So we just sit back and wait for him to send the next video?”

I bristled at his tone. “Do you think this is easy for me, Alex? He’s my father, for God’s sake. If he really is behind this, it’s not exactly something I can just snap my fingers and fix.”

“Yeah? Well, maybe if you’d been upfront about your connection to him earlier, we wouldn’t be in this mess,” Alex shot back.

His words hit like a slap, but I refused to let him see the hurt in my eyes. “You don’t get to put this on me,” I said coldly. “If you’d taken your role here seriously from the start, none of this would’ve happened.”

The silence that followed was deafening, the weight of our words hanging heavy between us.

“You’re right,” Alex said finally, his voice quieter now. “I screwed up. But if you think I’m going to sit here and let someone like Marcus Carter take me down, you’re dead wrong.”

Later that evening, after a tense day of planning, Alex and I found ourselves alone again in his office. The exhaustion of the last 48 hours had worn down both of our defenses, leaving little room for pretenses.

“Do you ever get tired of it?” Alex asked suddenly, breaking the silence.

“Tired of what?” I asked, looking up from my laptop.

“This,” he said, gesturing vaguely around him. “The constant pressure to be perfect. To make all the right moves, say all the right things. To be more than what people think you are.”

I hesitated, caught off guard by his vulnerability. “All the time,” I admitted.

Alex leaned back in his chair, studying me with an intensity that made my pulse quicken. “You make it look easy, though. Like you’ve got it all figured out.”

I shook my head, a faint smile tugging at my lips. “Trust me, Alex, I’m just as lost as you are. I just hide it better.”

He laughed softly, the sound warm and genuine for once. “Well, for what it’s worth, you’ve got my respect, Carter. Even if you drive me insane most days.”

“Right back at you,” I said, my smile growing despite myself.

The moment lingered, the tension between us shifting into something softer, more intimate. But before it could go any further, I stood, breaking the spell.

“Get some rest,” I said, grabbing my laptop. “Tomorrow’s going to be another long day.”

Alex nodded, but the look in his eyes told me he wasn’t ready to let the moment go.

“Goodnight, Sophia,” he said quietly as I headed for the door.

“Goodnight, Alex,” I replied, closing it softly behind me.