Chapter 2 - The Mafia Boss Offered to Destroy My Ex-Fiancé—But the Secret He Revealed About My Career Changed EverythingAlessandro Moretti was waiting in the lobby with a paper coffee cup in one hand and a slim black folder in the other.
He looked absurdly out of place beneath the cheerful mural our firm had commissioned for the children's reading room.
Behind him, painted foxes carried books through a forest of bright green trees.
In front of them stood a man rumored to control half the city's underground gambling operations.
His coat probably cost more than my monthly rent.
His expression was calm.
Mine was not.
“How did you find me?”
He looked at the folder.
“Your business card lists your firm.”
“That doesn't explain why you're here.”
“No.”
He glanced toward the glass conference room.
“May we speak somewhere private?”
I folded my arms.
“You can tell me right here.”
A faint smile touched his mouth.
“Fair enough.”
He handed me the folder.
Inside were copies of incorporation records for Carter Design Holdings, a series of property transfers, and a financing agreement with Whitmore Development Partners.
Ryan's company.
I recognized the letterhead immediately.
“What is this?”
“Evidence that someone created a company using your identity and attempted to assign it rights connected to the Brooklyn library project.”
I looked up sharply.
“How do you know about the library?”
“Because one of my legitimate companies is involved in financing the building's renovation.”
My pulse quickened.
“You own the library?”
“No. The city owns the building. The nonprofit operates the program. A Moretti family foundation provided part of the restoration funding.”
“Why?”
“Because my mother spent thirty years teaching children to read.”
I wasn't expecting that.
He continued before I could respond.
“My finance director flagged an unusual request yesterday. Whitmore Development wanted an advance payment redirected through Carter Design Holdings.”
I looked at the documents again.
The amounts were staggering.
Two hundred and eighty thousand dollars.
Then another proposed transfer of four hundred thousand.
“What does this have to do with me?”
“Your name appears as the company's managing member.”
“I've never heard of it.”
“I suspected that.”
“Why?”
“Because the paperwork contains an obvious inconsistency.”
He opened the folder to a signature page.
“Your signature is dated September fourteenth.”
“So?”
“You were presenting the library proposal in Albany that day. The nonprofit posted photographs of the event.”
I remembered the conference.
Margaret had been beside me.
I had spent six hours explaining accessibility requirements to a panel of donors.
“Ryan told me he was handling wedding paperwork that week.”
Alessandro's expression darkened.
“Did you give him access to your identification?”
I thought about the wedding planner.
The insurance forms.
The bank information.
“Yes.”
He nodded.
“Then you should speak to an attorney immediately.”
I looked at him.
“Are you offering me one?”
“I can recommend several independent firms.”
“Independent of you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He didn't pretend not to understand.
“Because you have no reason to trust me.”
That answer unsettled me more than a charming speech would have.
I closed the folder.
“Why are you helping?”
He studied me for a long moment.
“Because Whitmore is trying to steal from a project my foundation supports.”
“That sounds like a business reason.”
“It is.”
“And the personal reason?”
He looked toward the painted forest.
“I watched a man humiliate you in public. I dislike men who confuse generosity with ownership.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Interesting, considering what you said.”
His mouth tightened.
“I deserved that.”
“Yes, you did.”
Then, unexpectedly, he laughed.
It was brief.
Low.
Almost reluctant.
And it changed his face.
For one dangerous second, I understood why people might fall for a man like him.
Then I remembered Ryan.
Attraction was not evidence of goodness.
“I'll hire my own lawyer,” I said.
“Good.”
“And I don't want you confronting Ryan.”
“I haven't offered to.”
“Don't.”
His eyes held mine.
“Understood.”
I hesitated.
“Thank you for the documents.”
“You're welcome, Emily.”
He turned toward the exit.
Then stopped.
“One more thing.”
I waited.
“Change your passwords. Freeze your credit. And ask your employer to preserve the original email records.”
My throat tightened.
“Do you think he'll do more?”
“I think a man who uses your identity without permission is unlikely to stop simply because you ended an engagement.”
He opened the door.
And disappeared into the bright Brooklyn morning.
By lunchtime, my entire life had become a collection of emergency phone calls.
Allison helped me contact a lawyer named Rebecca Shaw, who specialized in financial fraud and business litigation.
Rebecca was forty-two, wore dark-framed glasses, and had the terrifying ability to read a contract while asking three unrelated questions.
After twenty minutes, she looked up.
“Emily, did you ever authorize Mr. Whitmore to act as your business representative?”
“No.”
“Did you ever sign a power of attorney?”
“No.”
“Did you know he registered this company?”
“No.”
She tapped the paperwork.
“Then we may be looking at identity theft, forgery, and attempted misappropriation of project funds.”
The words sounded unreal.
Identity theft.
Forgery.
Misappropriation.
I had thought the worst thing Ryan could do was break my heart.
Apparently, he had been much more ambitious.
Rebecca continued.
“We need to notify the relevant financial institutions, dispute the fraudulent filings, and preserve evidence. We'll also discuss the matter with law enforcement.”
I nodded.
Then asked the question that had been haunting me.
“Could I lose my job?”
She paused.
“I can't promise there won't be complications. But the best thing you can do is be transparent with your employer and cooperate fully.”
I looked down at my hands.
They were shaking.
Rebecca softened.
“Emily, look at me.”
I did.
“You are not responsible for another person's fraud merely because you trusted him.”
I swallowed hard.
“I should have noticed.”
“Perhaps. But that doesn't make you the person who forged the documents.”
For the first time that day, I breathed.
Ryan arrived at Allison's apartment at seven that evening.
He was wearing the charcoal coat I had bought him for Christmas.
He carried flowers.
White roses.
My least favorite.
Allison looked through the peephole.
“Oh, absolutely not.”
“Don't open it.”
Ryan knocked again.
“Emily, I know you're in there.”
I stood in the hallway.
“Go away.”
His voice softened.
“Sweetheart, please.”
I hated how familiar it sounded.
The voice that had convinced me to cancel dinners with friends.
The voice that had persuaded me my salary was too small to matter.
The voice that had turned control into concern.
“We need to talk,” he said.
“My attorney will contact yours.”
Silence.
Then the softness disappeared.
“You hired an attorney?”
“Yes.”
“Over a misunderstanding?”
“You forged my signature.”
Allison looked at me sharply.
Outside, Ryan lowered his voice.
“Open the door.”
“No.”
“Emily, you have no idea what you're getting involved in.”
“I know exactly what I'm getting out of.”
A pause.
Then he said something that made my skin go cold.
“Moretti has been using you.”
I closed my eyes.
“Good night, Ryan.”
“You think he happened to be at Bellamy's?”
I froze.
Ryan continued.
“He's been trying to ruin my company for months. And now suddenly he's interested in my fiancée?”
“Former fiancée.”
“You're a pawn, Emily.”
I stared at the door.
“Then why did you use my name on those contracts?”
Silence.
He didn't answer.
And that was answer enough.
“Leave,” I said.
His footsteps retreated.
A moment later, Allison's phone buzzed.
She glanced down.
Her expression changed.
“What?” I asked.
She turned the screen toward me.
Someone had posted a photograph of Alessandro and me in the lobby of my office.
The caption read:
BROOKLYN DESIGNER DUMPS WEALTHY FIANCÉ FOR NOTORIOUS MORETTI CRIME BOSS.
I stared.
The photograph had been taken through the building's glass doors.
Someone had been watching us.
And the post was already spreading.
By morning, the story had reached several gossip accounts.
By noon, strangers were commenting on my employer's social media pages.
Some called me a gold digger.
Others accused me of having an affair.
A few suggested I had used Ryan to get close to Alessandro.
Margaret called me into her office.
“I know this isn't fair,” she said. “But the board is concerned.”
I sat opposite her.
“About the rumors?”
“About the connection to Moretti.”
“He brought me documents.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?”
Margaret sighed.
“Emily, the library has donors. Parents. City officials. They're nervous.”
I looked through the window at the unfinished reading room.
Workers were installing shelves along the far wall.
Children would sit there someday.
They would open books.
They would have no idea how many people had argued over the money that built the room.
“Are you removing me from the project?”
Margaret hesitated.
“Temporarily.”
The word hit harder than I expected.
“Until we clarify the situation.”
I nodded slowly.
“Of course.”
I returned to my desk.
Packed my sketches.
And left before anyone could see me cry.
At three that afternoon, I received a message from Alessandro.
I saw the article. I didn't authorize any publicity. If my involvement has harmed your position, I apologize.
I stared at the words.
Then typed:
It has.
He responded almost immediately.
I understand.
I waited.
No excuse.
No demand.
No attempt to tell me that his intentions should matter more than the consequences.
I wrote:
My employer removed me from the library project.
Several minutes passed.
Then:
Would you like me to speak with the foundation board?
I thought about it.
One phone call from him might solve everything.
One phone call might put me back in charge.
And then what?
I would owe him.
Or at least everyone would believe I did.
No. I'll handle it.
All right.
I put the phone away.
Ten minutes later, Rebecca called.
“Emily, I need you to come to my office.”
“What's wrong?”
“We found something in the financing records.”
My stomach tightened.
“What?”
“The property listed under Carter Design Holdings isn't an ordinary commercial property.”
“What is it?”
Rebecca hesitated.
“It's the former St. Agnes Children's Home in Brooklyn.”
I frowned.
“I've never heard of it.”
“Your mother might have.”
I went still.
“My mother?”
Rebecca lowered her voice.
“Emily, the property was once owned by your maternal grandfather.”
I sat down.
My grandfather had died when I was twelve.
He had been a carpenter.
A quiet man who fixed broken chairs and taught me how to measure wood with a folding ruler.
He had never been wealthy.
At least, that was what I believed.
“Why would Ryan be interested in my grandfather's property?”
Rebecca was silent for a moment.
“Because according to the records, your family may still have a legal interest in the land.”
I stared at the wall.
“How much is it worth?”
“Potentially several million dollars.”
I couldn't speak.
Then Rebecca added:
“And Emily? Whitmore Development has been trying to acquire it for eighteen months.”
My hands went numb.
Eighteen months.
Ryan had proposed eleven months ago.
Suddenly, the engagement ring on the restaurant table looked very different.
It hadn't been a promise.
It had been part of a transaction.
And I was beginning to understand that Ryan Whitmore had never planned to marry me because he loved me.
He had planned to marry me because of something my family owned.
Something I didn't even know existed.
That night, I called my mother.
She answered on the third ring.
“Emily, sweetheart.”
“Mom, did Grandpa own a building called St. Agnes?”
Silence.
Long enough that I knew the answer before she spoke.
“Who told you about that?”
“A lawyer.”
My mother exhaled.
“Oh, Emily.”
“What is it?”
She didn't answer immediately.
Then she said, “Your grandfather didn't just own that building.”
I gripped the phone.
“What do you mean?”
“He helped protect it.”
“From whom?”
Another silence.
Then my mother whispered a name.
“Moretti.”
I stopped breathing.
“What?”
“Your grandfather knew Alessandro Moretti's father.”
The room seemed to shrink around me.
“And before he died,” she continued, “he made me promise that if anyone ever tried to take St. Agnes, I would never sign it away.”
I pressed a hand against my forehead.
“Why?”
My mother's voice broke.
“Because there's something hidden in that building, Emily.”
I stared at the dark window.
“What kind of something?”
She hesitated.
“Proof of what happened to your grandfather's brother.”
I swallowed.
“What happened to him?”
My mother began crying.
“He disappeared thirty years ago.”
I closed my eyes.
May you like
Then she said the words that changed everything.
“And the last person who saw him alive was Alessandro Moretti's father.”
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