OWNED BY THE ENEMY

The rain makes New York look like it’s made of broken glass. From the backseat of my father’s town car, the city is just light and shadow: neon smeared across slick pavement, billboards blinking over crowds that move like a single, restless beast Skyscrapers slice the sky open. Somewhere up there, above the mess and the noise and the lies, is him. Damon Valtieri. The man my father calls the devil. The man the news calls a visionary. The man I’m on my way to beg. Beside me, my father’s hand trembles around the silver head of his cane. The gesture is tiny, almost hidden in the dark leather interior, but I see it. I always see the things he tries to hide. “Remember what I told you,” he says, voice low, eyes locked on the tower ahead as it looms closer through the tinted glass. “You don’t show him fear. You don’t show him weakness. You say only what we discussed.” “Smile, nod, exist, don’t think,” I murmur, watching my reflection instead of his. Dark hair scraped into a sleek knot. Black dress, simple and expensive. Red lipstick painted on a mouth that feels borrowed. I look like a weapon someone else loaded. His jaw tightens. “This is not a joke, Aria.” No. My brother disappearing wasn’t a joke. Our servers crashing at midnight, our accounts frozen by morning, contracts yanked away before breakfast—none of that had been funny. Somebody gutted our world with a few keystrokes and a well-placed leak. And Valtieri Systems “offered” to help. “I remember,” I say. “I walk in. I follow the script. I beg the enemy for mercy with appropriate Moretti dignity.” “Do not call him that there,” my father snaps. “Not to his face. You will address him as Mr. Valtieri. You will apologize. You will—” “Sell what’s left of my pride?” I look at him, really look, and the bags under his eyes seem deeper than the last time. “Already on it, Papà.” His fingers go white on the cane. For a second, I think he might shout at me the way he used to when I was sixteen and reckless. But Lorenzo Moretti doesn’t have the luxury of shouting anymore. Not when banks are circling and rivals are testing the bars on his cage. “You know why this is necessary,” he says instead. I do. Luca is gone. Our company is bleeding. This city smells blood. Damon Valtieri is the shark my father chose to swim toward. The car glides to a stop beneath a glass canopy. The driver steps out first, and the umbrella snapping open. I brace myself, then push the door. Cold air slices up my legs as I step onto the sidewalk. I tilt my head back. Valtieri Tower disappears into the clouds, all black glass and sharp angles. It doesn’t look like a building. It looks like a blade. Inside, the lobby is all polished stone and glare. People in suits move like they’re on rails, purposeful and fast, barely glancing at the two new arrivals who don’t belong. We used to own places like this. Now we’re the ones asking for entry. A woman approaches, the click of her heels a metronome against the marble. Blond hair twisted into a perfect knot, red lips, and black suit. “Elena,” my father murmurs under his breath. Of course, he knows her name already. My father always knows the names of the gatekeepers between him and power. “Mr. Moretti. Ms. Moretti.” Elena’s smile is polite without being warm. “Mr. Valtieri is expecting you. This way, please.” We pass banks of elevators to a separate glass enclosure at the end of the corridor. No buttons inside—just a discreet scanner and a single word glowing softly above the doors: PENTHOUSE. “Stay calm,” my father whispers as the doors close. “I am calm,” I say. It’s not entirely a lie. Fear tastes like battery acid at the back of my throat, but there’s something else under it. Curiosity. The same restless itch I used to feel sneaking into closed boardrooms and reading files left on desks. What does a man like Damon Valtieri do when he has an entire city under his thumb? The elevator moves so smoothly that it feels like standing still while the world falls away. Floors tick past on a tiny digital display: 28, 46, 63. “Whatever he offers,” my father says, staring straight ahead, “you listen. You don’t agree. You don’t refuse. You let me speak.” Right. Let him bargain with the devil for a son he couldn’t protect and a company he couldn’t keep. The elevator shudders to a stop. My stomach does a slow flip. PENTHOUSE. The doors slide open without a sound. The first thing I see is glass. A wall of it, stretching from one end of the cavernous room to the other, floor-to-ceiling, the city spread out beyond like a sea of molten light. Rain streaks the panels, turning everything into ribbons of neon and shadow. The second thing I see is him. He stands with his back to us, hands in his pockets, watching his city drown in the storm. Dark hair, cut clean at the sides, a little longer on top like he’s run his hands through it too many times today. Broad shoulders under a fitted black shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms, revealing strong wrists and the faint trace of veins. He doesn’t turn when we step onto his floor. He lets us stand there, waiting, the way lesser animals wait outside a lion’s den. “Mr. Valtieri,” Elena says, her voice a little softer than it had been downstairs. “Lorenzo Moretti. And his daughter, Aria.” Silence stretches. I count the seconds. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Then he turns. The photos in the financial magazines don’t do him justice. The camera can’t capture the way his presence shifts the air or how his eyes strip you down to component parts in a single glance. Steel-gray, rimmed darker at the edges, intelligent and utterly unhurried as they move from my father to me. They stop on me. Something tightens behind his gaze. Not shock. More like…confirmation. “I was wondering when you’d walk into my building, Aria,” he says. My name in his mouth feels like a touch. My father stiffens slightly at the familiarity. I do, too, for a different reason. “We’ve never met,” I say. “You sound very sure I’d end up here.” “I’m rarely surprised,” he replies. “You’re late, actually. I expected you sooner.” There it is. This isn’t random to him. This is inevitable. He shifts his attention to my father like he’s flipping a switch. “Mr. Moretti.” His voice is low and smooth, threaded with roughness that makes it sound like sin spilling through your speakers at three in the morning. “You brought company.” “My daughter,” my father says. “Aria.” “Of course.” Valtieri’s eyes linger on my face a beat too long, then flick down, taking in the line of my dress, the tension in my hands. Not just s****l—analytical. “She’s the one who writes your quarterly impact reports.” I blink. He should not know that. “I’m flattered you read our boring paperwork,” I say before my father can respond. One corner of his mouth lifts, a ghost of a smirk. “I read everything that affects my city,” he says. “And your reports are many things, Ms. Moretti. Boring isn’t one of them. You lie very efficiently.” My father clears his throat sharply. “Mr. Valtieri, we—” “You contour your numbers,” Valtieri continues, still talking to me. “Just enough to please shareholders without crossing into fraud. You smooth the language and soften the blows. You tell the truth…quietly.” His head tilts. “You also bite your lip before you do it. You’re doing it now.” Heat shoots up my neck. I hadn’t even realized I was worrying my bottom lip between my teeth. His eyes flick to the movement and back up, something dark and satisfied glinting there. He’s watched me. Closely enough to map my tics. “How long have you been reading my reports, Mr. Valtieri?” I ask, forcing my voice to stay level. “A while,” he says simply. My father steps forward, cane clicking sharply on the polished floor. “We’re not here to discuss reports. We’re here to—” “Beg,” Valtieri says, turning to face him fully at last. “Yes. I was told.” The word hangs in the air like a slap. My father’s face flushes, but he swallows his pride. I watch it happen. Lorenzo Moretti, who used to make men half this city, kissed his ring and dropped his gaze for the first time in my life. “Our accounts were hit,” he says. “Our systems—” “Were hacked with surgical precision.” Valtieri walks toward a sleek black desk near the glass wall, his stride unhurried. “Contracts canceled. Partners spooked. Creditors circling. Your son vanished.” He doesn’t look at notes. There are no notes. “How do you—” my father starts. “The same way I knew you were in the lobby before Elena told me,” he cuts in. “I watch. I listen. I prepare.” “And help?” my father says tightly. “The message from your people said you were willing to help.” “That depends.” Valtieri sets a folder down and opens it, fanning out photographs and documents with long, deft fingers. “On how much you’re willing to lose.” He gestures lazily. “Ms. Moretti,” he says. “Come here.” My father’s hand clamps around my wrist for a second as if to hold me back, then drops. Pride won’t let him look afraid in front of this man. So I cross the room. Up close, Damon Valtieri is worse. Not because he’s prettier. Pretty is safe, shallow. He’s…dangerous. Every line of him, from the cut of his jaw to the stillness of his hands, radiates control. Power. He slides a photograph toward me. Luca. Tied to a chair, hands bound behind him, head tipped back. A cut on his cheekbone. Dried blood at the corner of his mouth. Eyes half-open, dazed. My vision tunnels. There’s a roaring in my ears, like standing too close to the subway. “Is this—” My voice comes out shredded. I swallow. “Is this recent?” “Forty-two hours ago,” Valtieri says. “The timestamp matches my intel.” My fingers curl against the edge of the desk. “Where is he?” “If I knew that,” he says, “we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” Cold slides down my spine. “So you called us here to…what?” I ask. “Watch you show off your information and not give us anything we can use?”