Chapter 6 - The Poisoned Bargain
Derek swallowed hard, the audible click of his dry throat cutting through the quiet office. He dragged a trembling hand across his damp brow, his mind frantically scrambling to find purchase on ground that had turned to sheer ice. He couldn't fight Alexander Moretti; he couldn't threaten him with police, and he certainly couldn't use his father’s political clout against a man who bought aldermen in bundles.
He had to change tactics. He had to trade.
Derek forced a weak, obsequious smile that looked grotesque on his pale, aristocratic face. He lowered his shoulders, attempting to project the demeanor of an equal entering a delicate business negotiation, though his knees trembled beneath his trousers.
“Mr. Moretti,” Derek began, his voice dropping into a cautious, deferential register. “I apologize for the… the abrupt entrance. I didn’t realize this was your personal suite. Had I known, I would have sent a card through your maître d’.”
Alexander did not acknowledge the apology. He remained seated with his hands folded over the blotter, his dark eyes fixed on Derek with the cold, scientific curiosity of an entomologist studying a beetle pinned to a board.
“You’re looking for your wife,” Alexander stated, his voice flat and uninflected.
“Yes,” Derek said, gaining a sliver of false confidence from the fact that Alexander hadn't ordered him executed on the spot. He took a cautious half-step to the side, keeping a respectful distance from the lead bodyguard who still shadowed his shoulder. “Look, Mr. Moretti, this is an unfortunate domestic dispute. An embarrassing one, frankly. But you’re a businessman of the highest order. You understand how certain… liabilities need to be managed before they spill into the public eye.”
Alexander’s left eyebrow lifted a fraction of a millimeter. “A liability?”
Derek leaned in slightly, lowering his tone as if sharing a corporate secret. “There’s something about my wife you need to understand, Mr. Moretti. Emily isn't what she appears to be. She’s… unstable. She’s been under psychiatric care for eighteen months. She has episodes of paranoia, delusions of abuse.”
Beneath the desk, Emily’s entire body went rigid. The blood rushed to her ears in a deafening, furious roar.
Delusions.
She looked down at the dark-purple finger marks bruising her wrist—marks made when Derek had dragged her by the arm across their private dining booth because she had dared to speak to an attorney about filing for divorce. The gaslighting, the endless narrative he had spun for her family, her friends, and their social circle for three years was being laid out once more, polished and presented like a reasonable corporate summary.
“She took something from my private safe before she ran tonight,” Derek continued, his voice taking on an urgent, conspiratorial edge. “Documents regarding the riverfront zoning permits for the new harbor district. Confidential files that involve municipal tenders… tenders your logistics firms are currently bidding on, Mr. Moretti.”
Derek paused, watching Alexander’s face closely, desperate to see a spark of interest or greed.
“She’s reckless,” Derek whispered. “If she talks to the press, or worse, the federal attorneys, those files could compromise both our families’ interests. Help me secure her tonight, quietly, and I will hand over the complete tender documentation. Your shipping companies will have the exclusive deep-water rights on the south branch without a single competing bid.”
May you like
Alexander’s expression became suddenly, terrifyingly unreadable.
Under the desk, Emily curled her fingers into the fabric of her skirt, holding her breath, listening to the price her husband was putting on her life.
