Chapter 3 - The Boardroom of Wolves
By nine the following morning, the glass tower of Moretti Holdings in the city’s financial district was surrounded by unmarked luxury sedans. Inside the thirty-fourth-floor conference room, twelve regional directors and major shareholders sat around an oval table of black obsidian. Among them sat Lorenzo Valenti—Victoria’s father—an aging patriarch whose silver hair and silk scarves concealed decades of ruthless port manipulation.
The double doors swung inward. Luciano stepped into the room, but he did not enter alone. Behind him, dressed in an understated charcoal wool skirt and a tailored ivory silk blouse, walked Elena. Her hair was pulled into an elegant, modest knot, but there were no jewels around her throat, no diamond bracelets to mimic the garish displays of mob royalty. She carried a single brown leather folder under her arm.
Whispers cut across the room like paper knives. Lorenzo Valenti chuckled dryly, swirling an untouched glass of water.
"Luciano, my boy," Lorenzo sneered, leaning back into his leather armchair. "We convened an emergency board meeting to discuss the impending disruption of our Mediterranean transit routes, not to host a morning coffee break. Why have you brought your domestic help to a strategy summit?"
Luciano pulled back the leather chair at the head of the table, gently gesturing for Elena to sit while he remained standing beside her, resting one hand upon the high backrest.
"You are looking at Elena Moretti," Luciano announced clearly, his voice vibrating through the silent chamber. "My legal wife, co-owner of the Moretti estate, and the sole daughter of Matteo Rossi."
The name Matteo Rossi hit the table like an electric current. Lorenzo’s smile froze, his eyes darting to the leather folder in front of Elena. Several older directors shifted uncomfortably, exchanging uneasy glances.
Elena took a breath, letting the calm lessons her father had taught her in childhood anchor her racing heart. She opened the folder and slid a series of photocopied maritime manifests across the glossy table toward Lorenzo.
"Sixteen years ago, Mr. Valenti, your shipping shell company forged three cargo bills to divert four thousand metric tons of emergency grain relief intended for the lower bay communities," Elena said evenly, her voice remarkably clear. "You sank the transport vessel off the shoals of Capri, collected the insurance payout, and blamed Matteo Rossi for an inventory miscalculation that ruined his name."
"Slander," Lorenzo scoffed, though the vein at his temple twitched violently. "Ancient history from a disgruntled clerk’s orphan."
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"It is not slander," Elena said, tapping the documents. "It is a double-entry ledger signed in your own hand, countersigned by the port authority auditor who is currently serving a term in federal custody. Luciano did not marry a maid, gentlemen. He married the ledger that holds the key to every clean port along this coastline."
Luciano leaned down, placing both palms flat on the table, casting a shadow over Lorenzo. "The game has changed, Lorenzo. If Victoria takes one step toward targeting my home or my people, these files go directly to the maritime tribunal. Now, let us discuss our supply routes with the honesty they deserve."
