Chapter 5: A Grand Return
1426 Words
Four years later. New York.
Some cities change you. Others are changed by you.
When I came back, New York was exactly the same.
The Manhattan skyline still stood proud and untouchable, steel and glass cutting through the cold October mist. Taxi cabs still smelled like disinfectant mixed with curry. Times Square still burned with blinding neon lights bright enough to make my eyes ache.
I was the one who had changed.
I stood inside a suite at the Waldorf Astoria on the forty-third floor, floor-to-ceiling windows stretching over Park Avenue. Below me, traffic flowed endlessly like a river of light.
I wore a black dress. Not the red one. That would come later.
This one was simple and elegant, tailored by a little-known but brilliant designer in Milan. Pearl earrings rested against my neck—small, understated, real. My hair had grown back over the years, dyed a rich dark brown and cut neatly at my shoulders, sleek and perfectly straight.
The woman staring back at me in the mirror looked like a young investment executive fresh out of business school.
She didn’t look like Ivy Fernandez.
She definitely didn’t look like prey.
Perfect.
I grabbed a bottle of sparkling water from the minibar and walked to the window, twisting the cap open. As I lifted the bottle to my lips, my eyes drifted south automatically.
Dozens of blocks away stood a skyscraper.
At the top of that building was Luca Rossi’s office. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Leather couches. Crystal ashtrays.
He was probably sitting there right now, signing contracts worth tens of millions while terrified businessmen tried not to sweat across from him.
He had no idea someone was already watching him.
And strangely, the thought stirred nothing inside me.
No excitement. No anticipation. No racing heartbeat.
Just as Jin had taught me—when you look at the target, you think of nothing else.
Only the bullet.
It had taken me years to learn that lesson.
The next morning at ten, I met Bobby Castro in a conference room in Midtown Manhattan.
Bobby was in his early sixties, overweight, with badly dyed black hair that couldn’t quite hide the gray roots underneath. His suit was too large, his tie loose and crooked.
Officially, he worked in commercial real estate brokerage.
Unofficially, he made his money with information.
Anyone selling buildings in Manhattan, buying land, drowning in debt, or planning to disappear—Bobby knew about it.
He also happened to be Vito’s distant nephew.
“Miss Isabella Moretti!” he blurted as he jumped to his feet so quickly his chair nearly tipped over. His palm was sweaty when he shook my hand, gripping far too hard, like he was trying to squeeze enthusiasm into the gesture. “My God, my uncle told me about you, but I didn’t expect someone so young. And beautiful. Not that he said you weren’t beautiful—he just didn’t mention your looks—”
“Bobby.”
I cut him off gently, mostly to give him a chance to breathe.
“Right, right. Of course. Sit down, let’s talk.”
He dropped back into his chair and dug through a stack of wrinkled papers inside his briefcase.
“Coffee? Tea? There’s a Starbucks downstairs if you want—”
“Water is fine.”
He looked oddly disappointed, as though he’d failed some test of hospitality. But he recovered quickly and leaned forward.
“You want information on Luca Rossi’s latest projects.”
“Not just projects.” I sat across from him, fingers tapping lightly against the table. “I want every major business move he’s making in the next twelve months. Legal businesses only. Excluding the other kind.”
“The dirty kind,” Bobby said quietly, lowering his voice instinctively. “Got it. Clean operations only. Real estate, logistics, hotels... oh, and art now too.” He snorted softly. “Money laundering, obviously.”
I wasn’t interested in his laundering operations.
I was interested in his weaknesses.
Bobby shuffled through his papers for several minutes, muttering under his breath.
“No good...”
“Maybe this one...”
“He buried this deep...”
Finally, he pulled out two crumpled sheets and spread them across the table.
“This.” His thick finger jabbed at the page. “Brooklyn Waterfront redevelopment project. City Hall’s rebuilding the old industrial district. Twenty-seven lots up for public bidding. Total valuation—four hundred million. Luca wants Lot 6.”
I studied the rough map Bobby had sketched.
Lot 6 sat along the East River, marked beside an old dockyard site and a future commercial development zone.
“What does he want it for?”
“Hotel project,” Bobby replied. “Luxury boutique style. But honestly, the hotel itself doesn’t matter. What matters is getting into the waterfront project. Biggest urban renewal project in New York over the next five years. Whoever gets in first controls the game.”
He lowered his voice again.
“Everybody knows Luca wants legitimacy. He wants an empire the public can see.”
I stared at the map silently.
Lot 6.
Open bidding.
Four hundred million dollars.
“When does bidding start?”
“Three weeks. Pre-qualification’s already done. Seven companies made the final shortlist. Rossi Group included.”
“The other six?”
Bobby read off the names while flipping through another file. Four local developers. One Chicago investment fund. One Cayman Islands shell company with no public ownership listed.
I wrote down every name carefully.
When I looked back up, Bobby’s smile faltered slightly under my gaze.
“Bobby, I need you to do something for me.”
“Anything.”
He leaned forward, his stomach pressing against the edge of the table.
“I need a company registered in Europe. Luxembourg or Liechtenstein. Investment management business profile.”
I reached into my bag and slid an envelope across the table.
“The funding source is already prepared.”
Inside was a Swiss private banking asset certificate arranged through Vito’s connections. Eight figures. Euros.
Bobby opened the envelope and glanced inside.
When he looked up again, his expression had changed.
Less eager.
More careful.
“You want to bid on Lot 6?”
“I want to make sure Luca Rossi doesn’t win Lot 6.” My voice remained perfectly calm. “I don’t care who gets it afterward. Me or someone else—it makes no difference. What matters is that Rossi Group loses publicly. Cleanly. Completely.”
Silence filled the room.
Bobby folded the papers carefully and tucked them into the inner pocket of his jacket before walking toward the window. He stared down at the traffic below.
“My uncle says you’re a businesswoman,” he said quietly.
“I am.”
“He says you have powerful European backing.”
“I do.”
“He says you’re not reckless.”
“I’m not.”
He turned around slowly.
For a split second, hesitation flickered in his eyes before disappearing completely. Vito must have told him enough to convince him this gamble was worth taking.
“Alright,” he finally said. “Three weeks. I’ll build you a company clean enough to pass pre-qualification.”
Then his expression darkened.
“But there’s something you should know.”
“Go ahead.”
“Luca Rossi doesn’t tolerate losing. Not even in public bidding. If you stand in his way, he’ll investigate you. Thoroughly.”
I stood and picked up my sunglasses from the table.
At the door, I paused and glanced back at him.
“Let him investigate,” I said calmly. “What worries me is if he doesn’t.”
Three days later, Bobby emailed me.
The company had been established.
Moretti Capital.
Luxembourg-based. European real estate investment and cross-border asset management.
Attached to the email was the complete proposal package for the Brooklyn Waterfront project.
Four hundred and twelve pages.
I spent the entire weekend reading every line.
By Sunday night, I had gone through six cappuccinos, filled three pens with empty ink cartridges, and covered the margins with notes.
At exactly eleven o’clock, I signed my name on the final page.
Outside the window, Manhattan glittered beneath the night sky.
My eyes drifted south once more toward the top floor of Luca Rossi’s tower.
The lights in his office were still on.
He was probably still working.
His empire still looked untouchable.
For now.
Because tomorrow, the first c***k would appear.
And this time, the blade would come from somewhere he would never expect.
- Writer
