Chapter 4 - The Boardroom Trap
Forty-eight hours later, the private boardroom on the fiftieth floor of Moretti Enterprises was filled with tension thick enough to choke on.
Arthur Moretti, Dominic’s paternal uncle and the vice chairman of the conglomerate, sat at the head of the table with his hands clasped over his rounded stomach. Sitting two chairs down was Isabella Russo, dressed in a sharp ivory suit, her eyes ringed with dark makeup that couldn't completely hide her sleeplessness.
“This is an outrage, Dominic,” Arthur boomed, tossing a manila folder onto the polished glass table. “You canceled three international contract signings this week. Word on Wall Street is that you’re having a personal crisis. The stock dropped two points yesterday because the press saw you lurking around Brooklyn like a common vagrant!”
Dominic sat back in his high-backed leather chair, unbothered. He didn't speak. He just watched the door.
“Arthur is right,” Isabella chimed in, leaning forward with an earnest, pleading expression. “Dominic, we are in the middle of closing the North Sea shipping buyout. If the board senses that Natalie Collins is reappearing to file a frivolous child support lawsuit, it will destabilize the entire shareholder foundation. We need to issue a preemptive public statement denying any ties to her family.”
“A frivolous lawsuit?” Dominic asked, speaking for the first time. His voice was soft, dangerously level.
“She’s an opportunist,” Isabella said, her confidence growing as she read the room. “She timed this intentionally. She brought children to your hotel gala to manipulate your emotions. We should file an injunction immediately.”
The boardroom doors opened with a smooth hiss.
Natalie walked in.
She was wearing a tailored navy blazer and black trousers, carrying a slim leather folder. She didn't look like a nervous mother begging for help; she looked like an executive about to deliver a hostile takeover notice. Behind her walked Dr. Harrison, the chief geneticist from Manhattan Presbyterian.
Arthur bristled, rising half out of his seat. “What is the meaning of this? This is a closed board meeting! Security, remove this woman!”
“Sit down, Arthur,” Dominic commanded, his voice slicing through the room like a cold whip.
Arthur froze, caught between fury and fear, before slowly sinking back into his chair.
Dr. Harrison stepped to the center of the table and opened a sealed envelope bearing the hospital’s wax crest. He placed four identical copies across the glass.
“Paternity confirmation for Oliver Moretti and Mia Moretti,” Dr. Harrison announced in clinical, detached tones. “Probability of paternity: 99.98 percent. Dominic Moretti is the biological father of both children.”
The room went dead silent.
Isabella gripped the edge of the conference table so hard her French-manicured nails cracked against the lacquer. Color drained completely from her face.
“Now,” Dominic said, standing up and towering over the table. “Let’s address the matter of the inheritance and the board’s concerns. As of eight o’clock this morning, my personal trust has been restructured. Fifty percent of my voting shares have been placed into an irrevocable trust for Oliver and Mia Moretti, with Natalie Collins designated as the sole legal trustee.”
Arthur turned purple. “You gave half the voting power of this company to an ex-wife who was dismissed for corporate espionage?! Have you lost your mind?!”
“That brings us to our second order of business,” Natalie spoke up, her voice ringing clearly across the expansive room. She stepped forward and slid another folder directly in front of Isabella.
Isabella looked down at the documents as if they were venomous snakes.
“What is this?” Isabella stammered.
“Those are the original IP routing logs from the night the harbor port acquisition files were leaked five years ago,” Natalie said. “When I was building Collins Events, one of my earliest clients was a cybersecurity firm specializing in forensic server recovery. I paid them six figures over three years to trace the exact terminal that planted the Vance files onto my home laptop.”
Dominic’s eyes fixed onto Isabella like twin gun barrels.
“The files didn't originate from my IP address,” Natalie continued, her tone ruthless and precise. “They were uploaded via a remote VPN proxy registered to an apartment on East 72nd Street. An apartment owned by a shell corporation named Russo Holdings.”
Isabella leaped to her feet, knocking her leather chair backward onto the carpet. “This is a lie! She forged those documents! Dominic, she’s setting me up to take your empire!”
“Call the district attorney,” Dominic said, never taking his eyes off Isabella.
“Dominic, please!” Isabella shrieked, all composure shattering into raw hysteria. “I did it for you! She was making you weak! You were going to leave the family business to open some pathetic vineyard in California with her! She was destroying your ambition! You belong at the top of this city! I made you who you are!”
“Security,” Dominic said quietly.
Two uniformed guards entered from the foyer. They didn't ask questions. They grabbed Isabella by the upper arms and dragged her toward the elevators as she screamed curses that echoed down the executive corridor until the heavy doors cut off the sound.
Arthur was staring at his hands, entirely silent, sweating through his custom-tailored collar.
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Dominic looked across the table at Natalie. She was standing tall, victorious, but her breathing was ragged. She had waited five years for this moment of absolute vindication, but there was no joy in her eyes—only the profound, exhausting weight of survival.
“Meeting adjourned,” Dominic said.
