(Damien Cross)
I'm still standing too close to Isabella, her question, Did your family kill my father?, hanging in the air like smoke. My own words, Did yours kill mine?, feel like a blade I didn't mean to draw. My hand shakes, just a little, and I shove it in my pocket before she notices. I didn't expect her eyes, those storm-gray eyes, to hit me like that. Like they're pulling up memories I buried long ago.
She steps back, her face hard, and turns away, her heels clicking as she leaves the conference room. The investors are gone, and it's just me, the hum of the air conditioning, and the weight of what just happened. I shouldn't care. I don't care. But my chest's tight, and I hate it.
I head for the hallway, needing air, but my mind's slipping somewhere else. Tuscany, 2005. I'm seven, maybe eight, sneaking through the villa's kitchen. The cook's yelling at someone, but I'm quick, grabbing a plate of pastries, flaky, dusted with sugar. I run to the courtyard, where Isabella's waiting, her dark hair in pigtails, her laugh loud as she kicks a soccer ball.
"Damien!" she squeals, spotting the pastries. "You're gonna get in trouble!"
"Worth it," I say, grinning, handing her one. She bites into it, sugar on her chin, and we sit on the grass, the sun warm, the world simple. No Morettis, no Crosses, just us.
The memory fades, and I'm back in the summit's sterile hallway, my jaw tight. That girl's gone. The woman who just walked away is a Moretti, and I'm a fool if I forget it.
My phone buzzes as I reach the elevator. It's Evelyn, her voice sharp when I answer. "Damien, where are you? The investors want a follow-up on your pitch."
"Handle it," I say, stepping into the elevator. "I've got something else."
She sighs. "You're chasing her, aren't you?"
I don't answer, just hang up. Evelyn's smart, but she doesn't get it. This isn't just business anymore. Isabella's digging into my past, and I need to know why.
I'm halfway to my suite when my phone buzzes again. This time, it's Nate, my head of security. "Boss," he says, his voice low, "we've got a problem. Someone accessed classified files on Operation Reignfall. From a Moretti IP address."
My blood runs cold. "Reignfall? You're sure?"
"Positive," he says. "Happened an hour ago. Traced it to Isabella Moretti's device."
I grip the phone tighter. Operation Reignfall was my dad's last project, a defense tech deal worth billions. He died protecting it, or so Carla said. A car crash, they called it. I never believed it. And now Isabella's poking around?
"Send me everything," I say, my voice hard. "And find out where she's staying."
"Already did," Nate says. "She's got a private suite, summit VIP floor. Room 2304."
"Good," I say, hanging up. I'm done playing defense. Isabella wants to dig into my world? I'm bringing the fight to her.
In my suite, I'm pacing, Nate's email open on my laptop. The Reignfall files are old, encrypted, but they're a map to my dad's last days, meetings, payoffs, names. Vittorio Moretti's name is all over them. If Isabella's got access, she's closer to the truth than I am.
I grab a folder from my safe, the one I've been building on Moretti. It's got leaks, emails, even a photo of Vittorio and my dad shaking hands. I don't know what it all means yet, but it's enough to shake her. I slip it into my jacket and head for the VIP floor.
The summit's still buzzing, but the hallways up here are quiet, the carpet thick under my shoes. I pass a security guard, flashing my badge like I belong. He nods, and I keep moving. Room 2304's at the end, the door plain but heavy, like it's guarding secrets.
I could knock, play it civil. But I'm past that. I need answers, and I need them now.
Before I go in, I stop at the summit's lounge, grabbing a coffee to clear my head. Evelyn's there, talking to some investor, but she spots me and breaks away, her heels clicking as she comes over.
"You're up to something," she says, crossing her arms. "What's going on?"
"Nothing you need to worry about," I say, sipping the coffee. It's bitter, but it keeps me sharp.
"Bull," she says, her eyes narrowing. "You've been obsessed with Moretti since the panel. Is it her? Isabella?"
I set the cup down, my jaw tight. "It's business, Ev. Let it go."
She steps closer, her voice low. "You don't look at business like you looked at her. Be careful, Damien. She's not just a CEO. She's a Moretti."
I don't answer, just walk away. Evelyn's right, but I can't stop now. Not when Isabella's got Reignfall in her hands.
At 2304, I don't knock. I've got a master key, Nate's good for more than just intel. The lock clicks, and I step inside, the door shutting soft behind me. The suite's dark, just a lamp glowing by the bed. Isabella's not here, but her stuff is, laptop on the desk, a jacket over a chair. It smells like her, something sharp and floral.
I pull the folder from my jacket, my fingers brushing the edges. This is it. No more games. I'm about to set it down when I hear the door click open. I turn, and there's Isabella, her dress from the gala swapped for a silk blouse and slacks, her gray eyes wide as she sees me.
"What the hell are you doing here?" she snaps, dropping her purse on the floor.
I don't move, just hold up the folder. "You've been busy," I say, my voice low. "Operation Reignfall. Ring any bells?"
Her face doesn't change, but her hands clench. "Get out," she says, stepping toward me. "Now."
"Not until you talk," I say, tossing the folder onto her bed. It lands with a soft thud, papers spilling out. "You think you know the game, Isabella? You're ten years late."