Chapter 5 - The Emergency Board Meeting
The boardroom on the fortieth floor of the Caruso Tower was designed to intimidate. The table was made of black Belgian glass that reflected the gray Manhattan sky like a sheet of dark water.
At 9:00 a.m., all twelve members of the board of directors were seated.
None of them were looking at their iPads.
They were looking at the front-page photograph of the New York Post lying face-up beside every leather blotter.
CARUSO EMPIRE ROCKED: BRIDE OF THE CENTURY WALKS OUT AFTER PUBLIC ASSAULT.
The headline was brutal. Below it was a high-resolution, crystal-clear image of Dominic’s hand raised, his signet ring catching the flashbulbs, and Nora standing beneath the chandeliers with blood on her cheek and an expression of absolute, terrifying calm.
The heavy oak doors swung open.
Dominic Caruso walked in. He hadn't slept; the dark circles under his eyes looked like bruises, and his tie was pulled slightly askew. He didn't take off his overcoat. He walked straight to the head of the table, placed both hands on the glass surface, and looked around the room.
“Before anyone starts reading the tabloids—” Dominic began.
“It’s not just a tabloid story, Dominic,” said Arthur Sterling, the senior managing director whose family held thirty percent of the voting shares. He slid an open tablet across the glass. “Moretti Group’s stock dropped twelve points at the opening bell this morning. And our institutional investors from Zurich are threatening to pull forty million in capital because of a potential ethics investigation into how our design division acquired its winter catalog.”
Dominic glanced down at the screen. It was an open letter from Atelier Nora—a newly filed corporate entity registered twelve hours ago at an East Village address—asserting copyright infringement on three flagship dresses currently advertised in the Caruso Design winter campaign.
Attached to the filing was a digital signature and a notarized original sketch dated four years prior, signed by Nora Bennett Caruso.
“That’s a domestic dispute,” Dominic said, his voice hard, though a thin vein was throbbing at his temple. “Our legal team is handling the separation agreement. It will be settled out of court by the end of the week.”
“A domestic dispute doesn't usually come with a chain of custody paper trail leaked directly to the SEC,” Julian Vance chimed in from the end of the table, trying to keep his voice steady. He adjusted his silk tie with a trembling hand. “We can simply issue a press release stating that Mrs. Caruso was a disgruntled former consultant who—ops, wait.”
Julian stopped talking because the door opened again.
It wasn't Marco.
It was Elena Vance, Julian’s aunt and the representative for the hospital foundation board that held major healthcare contracts with Caruso subsidiaries. She looked older this morning, her face pinched with anxiety as she laid a thick stack of printed emails on the glass table.
“Julian,” Eleanor said, her voice shaking with suppressed rage. “Would you care to explain why the state attorney general’s office just subpoenaed our hospital supply records regarding the Moretti Group kickback scheme?”
The room went dead silent.
Dominic slowly turned his head to look at Julian Vance. The young executive looked like he had just swallowed a mouthful of broken glass.
“What did you do, Julian?” Dominic asked. His voice wasn't loud. It was terrifyingly quiet—the sound of ice snapping right before the lake gives way.
“I—I didn't do anything,” Julian stammered, standing up so fast his chair screeched against the parquet floor. “It was just a standard supplier adjustment! The Moretti account was supposed to absorb the—”
“You used hospital supply channels to fund the Moretti wedding gala,” Dominic said, finishing the sentence for him. He walked slowly around the glass table, his eyes never leaving Julian’s face. “You used my name to cover up an embezzlement scheme while my wife was sitting at home raising my son.”
“Dominic, listen to me,” Julian pleaded, backing up against the wall until his shoulder hit the mahogany paneling. “We can fix this! We can pay off the blog, we can settle with Nora—”
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“You don't call her Nora,” Dominic whispered. He didn't raise his fist. He didn't have to. With a single, controlled motion, Dominic reached across the table, picked up his heavy crystal water pitcher, and smashed it against the glass surface, sending glittering shards flying across the black table.
“Get out,” Dominic said. “And if you ever come within five miles of my company—or my wife—again, Marco won't be the one who waits for you in the parking lot.”
