The private office of the Moretti estate smelled of aged mahogany, cold bourbon, and the heavy, undeniable weight of power.

Two weeks after the engagement was publicly dissolved, the fallout hit Virelli and Moretti Holdings like a tidal wave.

Anthony Romano wasn't a man to accept defeat quietly. Within fourteen days, a series of coordinated federal audits, shipping freezes, and union strikes hit Moretti-owned ports along the East River. Cargo containers sat stranded on docks. Financial accounts were flagged for federal review.

And at the center of the corporate sabotage was a single, smoking gun: a series of offshore wire transfers funneled through a shell company called Meridian Maritime Logistics, moving millions of dollars in untracked funds out of Moretti accounts into private Swiss holdings.

Luca sat in his private office late at night, staring at the financial spreadsheets spread across his desk. The numbers didn't make sense. The cryptographic digital stamps authorizing the illegal transfers bore a specific executive user ID: MB-02.

Marco Bellini.

The door to the office clicked open. Marco stepped inside, holding a thick leather portfolio under his arm. He wasn't wearing his suit jacket, and his tie was loosened around his collar.

“Working late again, Dom—er, Luca,” Marco said, his voice unusually strained.

Luca didn't look up from the spreadsheets. He kept his eyes locked on the digital authorization stamp on his monitor.

“You changed your user ID three weeks ago, Marco,” Luca said quietly. “You thought I wouldn't check the legacy audit logs from Meridian Maritime.”

Marco stopped dead in his tracks. The color drained from his face, leaving him looking older, harder, and suddenly dangerous.

“What are you talking about?” Marco asked, though his voice lacked conviction.

Luca slowly stood up, walking around the desk. He looked at the man he had called his brother for twenty years.

“You partnered with Anthony Romano,” Luca said, his voice flat and dead. “You helped him siphon funds out of the port terminals. You planned to pin the entire federal indictment on me the moment the wedding went through. Isabella was supposed to inherit half the estate, and you and Romano were going to carve up the rest.”

Marco stared at him for a long, agonizing second. Then, slowly, the tension in his shoulders dropped. A cold, cynical smile touched the corners of his mouth.

“You always were too smart for your own good, Luca,” Marco said, his voice losing all warmth. “You built an empire, but you got soft. You started caring about feelings, about domestic staff, about doing things the ‘honorable’ way. The syndicate doesn't run on honor, Luca. It runs on leverage.”