Chapter 3 - The Phone CallBy 2:00 PM that afternoon, I was sitting in my car parked three blocks away from the towering glass-and-steel monolith of Rossi Global Holdings in Midtown Manhattan. My hands were resting lightly on the steering wheel, but inside, my pulse was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
I had secured Nico Rossi’s private executive assistant’s direct line through an old university contact who worked in commercial leasing. I knew I had exactly one shot. If I called and sounded desperate, unhinged, or vindictive, security would cut me off in three seconds flat.
I picked up my phone, dialed the ten-digit number, and pressed it to my ear.
Ring.
Ring.
"Rossi Global Holdings, Executive Office," a crisp, ultra-professional voice answered. "Ms. Vance speaking."
"Hello, Ms. Vance," I said, injecting every ounce of corporate authority I possessed into my tone. "My name is Luna Sinclair. I am calling with an urgent, time-sensitive matter regarding confidential corporate compliance audits and a personal liability issue concerning Mr. Nico Rossi’s immediate family."
There was a sharp pause on the other end of the line. Executive assistants hear thousands of bluffing callers every week.
"May I ask the specific nature of your inquiry, Ms. Sinclair?" she replied coolly.
"Tell Mr. Rossi that it concerns a forty-two-page financial discrepancy originating from the Tribeca residential development project," I said smoothly, dropping the reference with deliberate precision. "And tell him that if he chooses not to take this call, those documents will be sitting on the desk of the Manhattan District Attorney's financial crimes bureau by 9:00 AM tomorrow."
It was a massive bluff on the timeline, but the core fact was ironclad: I knew about Liam’s secret accounts, and I knew Nico hated public humiliation more than anything else in the world.
Another long, tense silence stretched across the line.
"Hold please, Ms. Sinclair," the assistant said, her voice dropping all pretense of casual dismissal.
Click. Soft classical hold music hummed in my ear for thirty agonizing seconds. Then, the line clicked back open.
"Ms. Sinclair?" A deep, rich, authoritative baritone filled my ear—a voice that commanded boardrooms and silenced entire floors of executives with a single sentence. "This is Nico Rossi. You have exactly sixty seconds to explain why you are threatening my family office before I have my legal team file an immediate restraining order and injunction against you."
My heart hammered against my ribs, but my voice remained steady, clear, and ice-cold.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Rossi," I said. "I'm not here to threaten your company. In fact, I'm calling to save your family from a very messy, very public front-page scandal involving your son Liam's secret financial liabilities."
A sharp intake of breath on the other end. "Go on."
"I don't want your money, Mr. Rossi," I continued, looking out through my windshield at the towering glass skyscraper. "And I don't want your pity. But I do need a date."
A heavy, stunned silence met my words.
"A... date?" Nico Rossi repeated, his deep voice laced with profound skepticism and a hint of dangerous amusement.
"Tomorrow night. The Grandon Foundation Charity Gala," I said, laying my cards flat on the table. "Your son and my former sister are planning to make their grand public debut as a couple at that event. I want to arrive ten minutes after them. And I want to walk through those ballroom doors on your arm."
If silence could have weight, the phone line would have snapped under the pressure.
"You're out of your mind," Nico said slowly, every word measured and deliberate. "You want me to weaponize my personal life to humiliate my own son in front of New York society?"
"I want you to show your son that the world doesn't revolve around his arrogance," I countered, refusing to back down an inch. "And in exchange, Mr. Rossi? I will hand over every single encrypted financial file, bank statement, and digital trail proving that Liam has been systematically embezzling from your subsidiary accounts—files I have safely backed up in three separate secure locations. You take care of your family's public image. I get ten minutes of absolute, unmitigated poetic justice."
Another endless pause. I could hear the faint rustle of papers on his end, the sound of a powerful man weighing risk and reward in real time.
Then, a low, gravelly chuckle rumbled through the speaker.
"Pick you up at 7:00 PM sharp, Ms. Sinclair," Nico Rossi said. "Wear something red."
May you like
Click.
The line went dead.
