Embers

Chapter 6: The First Cleft

The bidding session was scheduled for 10:00 a.m. in the East Wing conference room at City Hall.

I arrived early.

Very early.

So early that the coffee service hadn't even been set up yet.

The young woman handling registration was still struggling with the printer. When she saw me walk in, she froze for a second, clearly not expecting anyone to show up forty minutes ahead of schedule.

She typed my name into the system, printed a visitor badge, and hurriedly pinned it to my jacket.

“Moretti Capital,” she repeated, as if testing the unfamiliar name on her tongue. “Good luck.”

I smiled politely.

Not warm. Not cold.

Just enough.

The conference room was spacious, dominated by a long oak table that could easily seat thirty people.

I chose a seat by the window.

Sunlight filtered through the blinds, laying thin ribbons of gold across the tabletop.

Beyond the glass stood the silhouette of the Brooklyn Bridge. Its steel-gray cables gleamed coldly beneath the morning sun.

I pulled the bid proposal from my bag, opened it, and flipped to the final page.

The numbers stared back at me.

I'd memorized them so many times I could recite them in my sleep.

Our offer was 12.5 percent above the benchmark price.

Not a cent higher.

Not a cent lower.

Exactly half a percentage point above Luca's expected bid.

At least according to Bobby's intel.

He'd told me the Rossi Group was playing it cautiously this time. They didn't want to appear overly aggressive in an open bidding process, so their offer would likely hover around twelve percent.

Twelve percent.

A safe number.

High enough to eliminate most competitors, but conservative enough to avoid drawing attention from auditors.

Most competitors.

Just not me.

I closed the file and folded my hands in my lap.

Then I watched the door.

People gradually began arriving.

A middle-aged man in a plaid suit entered first, a briefcase tucked beneath his arm. His shirt strained slightly over his stomach.

Then came two young men who looked like junior analysts from some investment fund, whispering to each other while clutching laptops against their chests.

A woman in her forties followed shortly after. Short hair. Gray suit. Brisk stride.

She avoided eye contact with everyone.

The head of the Chicago fund.

I'd read her file.

By 9:55, the room was nearly full.

He still hadn't arrived.

I kept my eyes on the door.

My heartbeat remained steady.

That surprised me.

Four years ago, hearing his name alone was enough to make my stomach twist.

Three years ago, I'd wake up in Jin's apartment in the middle of the night, haunted by memories of him casually flicking ash from a cigarette.

And now?

He was minutes away from walking through that door.

Yet my pulse remained as calm as if I were waiting for a stranger.

Jin had been right.

Training changes you.

Not only your hands.

Your heart, too.

9:58.

The door opened.

The room instantly quieted.

Not because he did anything.

He simply walked in.

But some people carried a presence that filled every space they entered. A pressure you couldn't see, only feel—like the sudden drop in air pressure before a storm.

Luca Rossi wore a perfectly tailored dark gray suit.

No tie.

The top two buttons of his shirt were undone.

Exactly the same way he'd worn it the last time I saw him four years ago.

Two men followed behind him.

One was an older man with silver hair.

A lawyer, most likely.

The other was Marco.

Marco.

The moment I saw that sharply carved face, my fingers tightened instinctively.

Only for a second.

Then I looked away as casually as if I'd glanced at a piece of furniture.

Luca took a seat near the head of the table, seven seats away from me.

His gaze swept across the room.

For a fraction of a second, it paused on me.

Maybe less.

Then he looked away and leaned toward the lawyer beside him.

Of course he doesn't recognize me.

Why would he?

My hair was different.

My makeup was different.

My style was different.

Everything about me had changed.

More importantly, in his mind, I was dead.

Dead women don't attend bidding meetings.

The moderator cleared his throat and announced the start of the session.

The process was painfully tedious.

Seven companies.

Fifteen-minute presentations each.

The woman from Chicago spoke with polished professionalism, delivering every figure from memory.

The local developers were much the same—trading subtle glances with one another as though they were playing poker instead of competing for a project.

When it was my turn, I stood and presented Moretti Capital's proposal.

It took less than ten minutes.

My voice remained calm.

My pace steady.

My expression unreadable.

When I finished, the moderator nodded with apparent approval.

The Rossi Group went last.

Luca didn't present.

The silver-haired lawyer handled the presentation instead.

But throughout the entire process, Luca's eyes continuously moved around the room.

Not out of suspicion.

Out of habit.

A predator's habit.

When his gaze swept past me, I picked up my water glass and took a sip.

The cool rim pressed lightly against my lips.

The results were announced at three o'clock.

Everyone gathered in the hallway outside.

Some stood around talking.

Others leaned against the walls scrolling through their phones.

I sat beside a window, watching the clock on my screen.

3:00 p.m. sharp.

The host stepped out, holding a sheet of paper.

Then he read a name.

"Moretti Capital."

For several seconds, silence filled the hallway.

Then the man in the plaid suit cursed under his breath and tossed his coffee cup into a trash can.

The woman from Chicago strode past me, her heels striking the floor in rapid succession.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Like unfinished punctuation.

I didn't celebrate.

I didn't smile.

I simply slipped my notebook into my bag, zipped it closed, and stood.

Ready to leave.

A hand landed against the wall in front of me.

I didn't turn immediately.

I already knew who it was.

The scent.

The height.

The way he stood.

You think you've forgotten someone.

Then your body remembers everything for you.

“Moretti Capital.”

His voice came from behind me.

Deep.

Measured.

“A European firm. Registered less than three weeks ago. Yet somehow it passes pre-qualification and beats the Rossi Group in an open bid.”

He paused.

“Interesting.”

I turned and looked up.

His face was closer than I'd expected.

Four years hadn't changed him much.

Though there was a faint shadow beneath his eyes now.

Too many sleepless nights.

Too many burdens.

Maybe too much grief.

His eyes were still the color of a frozen lake.

Only now they held something else.

Scrutiny.

The alert focus of one predator recognizing another.

“Mr. Rossi,” I said softly, “I'm glad my company has captured your interest.”

“Who are you?”

Straight to the point.

No games.

“Isabella Moretti.”

His expression didn't change.

“Never heard of you.”

“You have now.”

I gently moved his arm away from the wall.

His posture felt less like a threat and more like a test.

“If you'll excuse me, I have another meeting.”

As I passed him, his voice stopped me.

“How did you know my bid?”

I froze.

But I didn't turn around.

“I didn't know your bid.”

“You offered twelve and a half percent. I offered twelve. A difference of half a point.”

His voice remained calm.

But beneath that calm, something darker stirred.

“Only three people at City Hall knew the Rossi Group's number. And you weren't one of them.”

A brief pause.

“So I'll ask again.”

“How did you know?”

The atmosphere in the hallway shifted.

Two developers nearby glanced in our direction before quickly looking away.

Marco stood several feet behind Luca, expressionless, both hands tucked into his pockets.

I slowly turned back.

This time, I looked at Luca for a long moment.

“Perhaps,” I said quietly, “you weren't careful enough.”

Something flickered in his eyes.

Not anger.

Something sharper.

As though I'd touched a nerve he didn't know existed.

I didn't wait for a response.

I turned and walked away.

The elevator doors slid shut.

Only then did I slip my hand into my coat pocket.

My fingers curled tightly into a fist.

Not because I was nervous.

Because it had taken me four years to stand in front of him and say those four words.

You weren't careful enough.

The elevator descended.

I slowly unclenched my hand.

Returning to the woman whose hands never shook.

That evening, I returned to the hotel.

I brewed a cup of black tea and sat by the window, staring out at the city skyline.

Bobby called.

He sounded like he'd just won the lottery.

“Isabella! Did you see his face?”

I laughed softly.

“No.”

“Neither did I, but I've heard enough stories already. The entire industry is talking about it. A brand-new company swoops in and steals Lot 6 from the Rossi Group on its first deal. Do you know how long it's been since anyone handed Luca Rossi a loss?”

“How long?”

“Since the day he became the Godfather.”

He laughed.

“Never.”

Then his voice turned serious.

“You opened a c***k, miss.”

A c***k.

The word was perfect.

Not a fatal wound.

Not even enough to draw blood.

Just a c***k.

But once a c***k appeared, people started looking.

Peering inside.

Wondering whether the foundation had loosened.

Wondering whether it only needed one more push.

After we hung up, I switched off the lights.

Then I sat alone in the darkness for a long time.

Outside, Manhattan still glowed.

The lights on the top floor of that building remained on.

I knew he was there.

Right now.

Maybe he was throwing things.

Maybe he was yelling at Marco.

Or maybe he was doing nothing at all.

Just sitting in that leather chair.

Watching the city darken beyond the windows.

Thinking about the four words a stranger had said to him in a hallway.

Luca Rossi wasn't used to losing.

And he was even less used to not knowing who had beaten him.

Soon, he'd start digging.

Bobby said he'd investigate every detail.

Let him.

I've been ready for that for a very long time.