Chapter 6 - The Weight of the Title
The morning after the purge of Mark Bell and Victor Hale, the atmosphere on the executive floor of Moretti Holdings felt different. The air was sharper, charged with a quiet, watchful tension. People didn't just walk past Sophia’s newly relocated desk outside Dante’s private suite; they slowed down. They nodded. Some even offered tight, cautious smiles.
Word had traveled fast through the corporate grapevine. Spilling coffee was an accident. Spotting a forged signature was talent. Uncovering a six-figure embezzlement ring before lunch made you someone you didn't mess with.
Sophia sat behind her expansive new mahogany desk—upgraded from the cramped secretary's station by the window—and adjusted her glasses. Her dual monitors were flooded with financial audits, structural reports from the Boston shipping docks, and vendor contracts that needed a forensic eye.
The heavy oak doors of the private office swung open, and Dante emerged. He wore a crisp charcoal suit, his sleeves down, his dark hair neatly combed. He stopped by her desk, dropping a thick leather-bound folder onto the blotter.
"Good morning, Sophia," he said, his voice smooth and commanding.
"Good morning, Mr. Moretti. Coffee?"
“Black, two sugars, and a legal pad,” Dante replied, a faint hint of amusement in his eyes. “Though considering yesterday, maybe I should pour it myself.”
Sophia offered a dry smile. “I promise my coordination has improved, sir. The rug has been taped down.”
“Good. Because we have a board meeting at ten, and the logistics committee is going to try and push through a budget increase for the New England transport lines. I want you in that room.”
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Sophia looked up, surprised. “In the boardroom? As Chief of Staff?”
“As the person who actually reads the numbers,” Dante said, turning toward the elevator bank. “Wear comfortable shoes, Sophia. Corporate politics are much bloodier than spilled coffee.”
