Chapter 4

Gianna Vitiello POV:

Moretti Shipping Logistics.

It was the sanitized face of Luca's operation. The front for his legitimate income. The clean money.

This was the cash flow that paid for the penthouse, the private school, and the designer coats for his new wife. And half of the contracts that kept this building running belonged to my father.

I walked through the glass doors. I didn't have an appointment. I didn't need one.

Two of my father's enforcers, mountains of muscle encased in dark Italian wool, flanked me.

The receptionist, a young girl who looked pale with terror, reached for the phone.

"Don't," I said.

Her hand froze. She dropped the receiver back into its cradle with a clatter.

I marched straight to the double doors at the end of the hall. I didn't knock. I pushed them open.

Luca was behind his desk, reviewing a manifest. He looked up, startled.

But he wasn't alone.

Elena was there. She was sitting on the edge of his desk, her legs crossed, her skirt hiked up high on her thighs.

She had a pen in her hand, playing with it idly. Her hair was messy, her lipstick smudged. The air in the room was thick with the musk of sex and the cloying sweetness of cheap perfume.

She jumped off the desk when she saw me, smoothing her skirt down frantically. But she didn't look ashamed. She looked annoyed.

"Do you ever knock?" Elena asked. Her voice was grating. "This is a private office."

I ignored her entirely. I looked only at Luca.

"We're pulling the contracts," I said. "The North Side distribution. The harbor access. All of it. My father signed the termination papers this morning."

Luca stood up, panic flashing in his eyes. "Gianna, you can't. That's sixty percent of my revenue. That's the clean money. The IRS will be all over me if that cash flow drops."

"Should have thought of that before you breached our alliance," I said.

I tossed a blue folder onto his desk. It slid across the polished wood, stopping inches from Elena's hand.

Elena picked it up. She opened it, pretending to read, pretending she understood the complexities of a syndicate contract.

"You can't do this," Elena said, glaring at me. "We have a family to support. My daughter needs security."

I laughed. It was a cold, sharp sound.

"Your daughter isn't my problem," I said. "And neither is your mortgage."

"Luca!" Elena whined, turning to him. "Tell her to get out. Tell her she can't bully us. I'm your wife."

She grabbed his arm, digging her nails into his suit jacket. She was marking him. Like a stray dog pissing on a fire hydrant.

Luca looked at me. He looked at the contracts. He knew I was cutting his throat financially. He knew I was right.

But Elena was there, playing the victim, playing the mother.

"Gianna, leave," Luca said. His voice was hard, but forced. "We'll discuss business through the lawyers."

"Lawyers," I scoffed. "Since when do we use lawyers, Luca?"

"Since you became an outsider," he said.

He chose her again. To save face in front of his men. To keep the peace in his broken home.

"Fine," I said. I turned to leave. "Enjoy the paperwork."

I paused, my hand on the door handle.

"And Elena?"

She looked at me, her eyes narrowing.

"Try to keep your legs closed during business hours," I said. "It's unprofessional. Even for a rat."