I don’t fucking care.
I spiral, throwing everything I can get my hands on. Pens. Papers. A stapler. The tray of appetizers—the food hitting the wall and sending arancini, caviar, and goat cheese flying.
Then I slump onto my haunches, the carnage of my life matching the carnage I’ve unleashed upon the room as my chest heaves and the back of my eyes burns.
This is insane.
I shake my head, refuting all of it, and focus on my breathing, forcing it to slow in rhythm.
Deep inhale. Long exhale.
My limbs grow heavy, the adrenaline withdrawal coming hard and fast. The fight bleeds out of me, replaced by splintering determination.
I lower my gaze to the damning folder on the floor beside me, the unassuming weapon destroying everything. My career. My name. My sense of self.
Sniffing once, I straighten and force my emotions to the back of my mind where they belong. What I need is understanding. Strategy.
I reclaim the folder and open it to the first page. There’s no letterhead. No legal insignia. Only a brief statement of terms?—
In exchange for a non-refundable sum of seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars, CrossPoint Consulting agrees to provide prioritized access to financial advisory services and expedited portfolio handling to the Cavallo Group for a term of twelve months.
Two signatures solidify the atrocity: my father’s elegant script and the other scrawled and unintelligible.
Then there’s the date I hadn’t paid attention to at first inspection. A date nineteen years in the past.
Raffael didn’t initiate this. He was too young.
This had to have been orchestrated by his father, Giancarlo, the man who smiled at me like I was a beloved niece. Who held my gaze at fundraising galas with nothing but pride and warmth. Who praised my potential in front of my father while quietly laying the groundwork to exploit it behind my back.
I swallow the nausea and flip to the next page.
The same signatures mark the paper. The terms are replicated, only the expiration date has been extended and the financial compensation increased.
Year after year, contract after contract, the numbers stack. Then the language changes and it’s not merely preferential access. It’s insider insight. Strategic loyalty.
And funnily enough, those claws dig deeper right when Raffael and I were becoming power players in the industry, the taint of his ego etched through the fine print. The terms were extended. The payouts increased. The clauses became more aggressive.
It’s systemic. Generational. A calculated exploitation of my father’s weaknesses.
Right up until the blood debt dated three and a half years ago.
Movement catches in my periphery.
Elena steps into the study, her smile composed, but panic flares in her eyes as she takes in the warzone of food and stationery strewn across the floor.
I snap the folder shut, guilt lodging in my chest.
It’s not like Raffael was going to handle the mess. He probably won’t even see it.
“Dinner is ready.” Her voice is gently strained while her gaze drifts over the splotches of caviar and goat cheese embedded in the rug.
That guilt intensifies. “I’m sorry, but I’m not hungry.”
A line forms between her brows, her concern for the destruction seemingly overshadowed by my lack of appetite. “Are you sure? The chef prepared rack of lamb with red wine reduction, parsnip purée, and charred broccolini.”
Strangely enough, it’s my favorite. And yet the thought of food still turns my stomach.
I nod. “If you don’t mind grabbing me a trash bag and some cleaning supplies, I’ll take care of this.”
