(Damien Cross)
I'm in a diner across town, the kind with sticky tables and coffee that tastes like tar. My godmother, Carla, sits across from me, her gray hair pulled into a bun, her hands wrapped around a mug. She's the only family I've got left, the one who raised me after Dad's life fell apart. The place is half-empty, just a trucker at the counter and a waitress wiping glasses.
The waitress shuffles over, notepad in hand. "Refill on that coffee, hon?" she asks Carla.
"Please," Carla nods, sliding her mug forward. She waits until the waitress moves away before continuing.
"Damien," Carla says, her voice low, "you sure you want to dig into this? Once you open this door, there's no closing it."
I lean forward, my elbows on the table. "I'm sure. The Morettis are coming for my deals. I need to know why."
She sighs, her eyes flicking to the window. Rain starts to patter against the glass, matching my darkening mood. "Your father... he got mixed up with bad people. One of them was Vittorio Moretti."
My jaw tightens. "Vittorio? Isabella Moretti's dad?"
Carla nods, sipping her coffee. "Years ago, when you were a kid, there was a car bombing. You were in the car, Damien. Vittorio pulled you out before it went up in flames."
I sit back, my pulse racing. The fluorescent lights suddenly seem too bright, the diner too small. "Nobody told me that."
"You were too young," she says, her voice soft. "Your dad didn't want you to know. But Vittorio saved your life. After that, they had a deal."
"What kind?" I ask, my voice sharp enough to make the trucker glance over.
She hesitates, then leans in. "Your dad sold company secrets to Moretti. Tech patents, financials, all of it. In exchange, Vittorio paid him to stay quiet."
I slam my fist on the table, the mug rattling. "He sold us out?"
"Keep it down," Carla hisses, glancing at the trucker. "Your dad was desperate, Damien. Debts were piling up. He thought he was protecting you."
"Protecting me?" I scoff, standing. "He ruined us. And now the Morettis are back, sniffing around my company."
Carla grabs my wrist. "Be careful, Damien. The Morettis don't play fair."
"Neither do I," I pull away, tossing a twenty on the table.
The waitress calls after me, "You didn't touch your pie, sugar!"
"Not hungry anymore," I mutter, pushing through the door into the rain.
Back at my penthouse, I'm pacing, Carla's words looping in my head. Vittorio Moretti saved me, but his family used my dad like a pawn. Now Isabella's running their game, and I'm not letting her win.
I stop at the window, staring at the city lights blurred by raindrops. The memory hits me, smoke, screaming, strong hands pulling me from twisted metal. A man's voice with an Italian accent saying, "Breathe, bambino. Just breathe." Was that Vittorio?
My phone buzzes, Evelyn. I answer, already grabbing my laptop.
"Talk to me," I say, opening NeuralNet's latest report.
"Summit's tomorrow," Evelyn says, her voice all business. "Moretti's pitching Horizon Tech at the main panel. Word is, Isabella's leading it."
I smirk, my fingers flying over the keyboard. "Perfect. I'm crashing it."
"Damien," she says, her tone sharp, "you can't just barge in and, "
"Watch me," I cut her off. "I've got dirt on Horizon's financials. Their books are a mess. I'm exposing them in front of every CEO in Dubai."
She sighs. "You're playing with fire."
"Good," I say, hanging up.
I pull up my slides for the summit, tweaking the numbers to hit Moretti where it hurts. Isabella wants to play? I'm ready.
My phone rings again. It's Carla.
"I forgot to mention," she says without greeting, "Isabella was there too. The day of the bombing."
My fingers freeze over the keyboard. "What?"
"She was just a kid, maybe ten. Her father brought her along that day. She saw everything."
I close my eyes, pieces clicking into place. "So she knows."
"Yes," Carla says softly. "She knows what her father did for you. What your father did for her family."
I hang up, my mind racing. This changes things. Or does it?
The next day, I'm in Dubai, the Tech Summit buzzing around me. The convention center's massive, all glass and steel, packed with suits and tech nerds. I'm in a tailored black suit, my badge clipped to my lapel. The air smells like money and ambition.
A young assistant stops me at the entrance to the main hall. "Sir, this session is invitation only."
I flash my Cross Enterprises card. "Damien Cross. I believe you'll find me on the list."
She scans her tablet, frowning. "I don't see, "
"Check again," I say with the confident smile that's closed million-dollar deals.
She hesitates, then steps aside. "Of course, Mr. Cross. My apologies."
I slip into the main hall just as the Horizon Tech panel starts. Isabella's up there, standing at the podium, her dark hair pulled back, her gray eyes scanning the crowd. She's sharp, confident, laying out Horizon's processor like it's the future. The room's eating it up.
"Our quantum architecture," she's saying, her voice carrying through the hall, "will revolutionize data processing speeds while cutting energy consumption by sixty percent."
A silver-haired man in the front row raises his hand. "And the cooling system? Previous attempts at quantum processors have failed there."
Isabella smiles, completely in control. "We've developed a proprietary cooling system using liquid nitrogen that solves the overheating issue entirely. The specs are in your packets."
I lean against the wall, my tablet open, waiting for my moment. When she opens the floor for questions, I step forward, raising my hand. Her eyes lock on me, and for a second, I swear she freezes.
"Damien Cross, Cross Enterprises," I say, my voice carrying. "Horizon's tech is impressive, but your financials aren't. Your debt-to-equity ratio's a disaster. Why should we trust a merger with a company one step from bankruptcy?"
The room goes quiet. Isabella's jaw tightens, but she doesn't flinch. "Mr. Cross," she says, her voice smooth, "our due diligence shows Horizon's solvent. Their debt is manageable, and their tech outweighs the risk."
"Manageable?" I shoot back, holding up my tablet. "I've got data saying you're hiding losses. Want me to share?"
Her eyes flash, but she smiles. "I'd love to see your sources, Mr. Cross. After the panel."
"I'm happy to share them now," I counter, taking a step forward.
The moderator clears his throat. "Perhaps we can move on to the next question?"
Isabella holds my gaze. "No, let's address this. Mr. Cross clearly has concerns." She turns to the audience. "Transparency is one of Moretti Group's core values. Yes, Horizon took on debt for R&D. That's how innovation happens. But our projections show profitability within eighteen months of launch."
The crowd murmurs, and I sit down, my blood pumping. She's good, but I rattled her. I can tell.
After the panel, I'm cornered by a tech blogger, microphone thrust in my face. "Mr. Cross, your confrontation with Ms. Moretti was unexpected. Is Cross Enterprises planning to counter-bid for Horizon?"
"No comment," I say, spotting Isabella across the room, surrounded by admirers. She glances my way, her expression unreadable.
That night, the summit gala's in full swing, a ballroom dripping with chandeliers and champagne. I'm nursing a drink, watching the crowd, when I spot her. Isabella Moretti, in a black dress that hugs her like a secret, talking to some CEO. She's all poise, but her eyes keep darting, like she's looking for someone.
A waiter offers me another glass. "Champagne, sir?"
"Scotch," I correct him. "Neat."
"Right away, sir."
I set my empty glass down and move toward her, weaving through the crowd. Up close, there's no mistaking her, those gray eyes, that sharp jaw. It's the girl from the photo Carla showed me years ago, the one I played with in Tuscany. The one who doesn't know what her family did to mine.
She turns, and our eyes lock. For a second, I think she recognizes me. Then she brushes past, her shoulder grazing mine, her perfume lingering, something expensive with notes of jasmine.
"Doesn't even remember," I mutter, my voice low, my chest tight.
But as she walks away, her hand tightens into a fist. She remembers. I'm sure of it.
"Mr. Cross?" A voice pulls me back. It's the CEO of TechFusion. "That was quite a show today. Care to elaborate on your concerns about Horizon?"
I force a smile. "Just doing my homework, Richard." But my eyes follow Isabella as she disappears into the crowd.
Later, I find myself on the terrace, away from the noise, the Dubai skyline glittering below. I hear the door open behind me.
"You shouldn't have come." Her voice is cool, controlled.
I turn to face Isabella Moretti, backlit by the gala's lights. "Why? Afraid I'll spoil your deal?"
She takes a step forward. "You have no idea what you're meddling with, Damien."
"Don't I?" I counter. "Your father saved my life, then destroyed it. Now you're here, finishing what he started."
Something flickers across her face, surprise, maybe even pain. Then it's gone, replaced by that practiced composure.
"You don't know the whole story," she says quietly.
"Then tell me," I challenge her.
She studies me for a long moment, then turns to leave. "Some other time. When you're ready to listen, not just attack."
"Isabella," I call after her. She pauses but doesn't look back. "This isn't over."
She glances over her shoulder, her gaze meeting mine. "No," she agrees. "It's only just beginning."
As she walks away, I can't shake the feeling that behind her perfect façade, she's hiding something bigger than business. Something that could change everything I thought I knew about my father, the Morettis, and why our lives became so entangled.
And despite myself, I want to know what it is.