The boardroom was silent except for the steady tick of the antique clock on the wall. Elena Rossi sat at the head of the long oak table, her hands clenched around a single piece of paper, the grainy photo that had stolen her sleep the night before.
She had stared at it until her eyes burned. Director Ferraro, her father's old friend, the man who had cast every vote in her favor since she took the chair, shaking hands with a representative from Blackthorne Holdings. Alessia's people.
Her ally. Her Judas.
The early Milan sun streamed through the tall windows, painting the polished wood in gold, but to Elena it felt like sitting in a tomb.
When the door opened, she did not rise.
"Director Ferraro," she said evenly, though her voice was tight enough to snap.
He smiled, the kind of warm, paternal smile that once might have reassured her. "Elena, so early? I was surprised by your summons. Is everything all right?"
Her fingers flexed. Don't scream. Not yet.
She slid the photo across the table. "Perhaps you can explain this."
Ferraro glanced down, and for the briefest flicker of a second, guilt flashed across his face before he smoothed it into calm. He leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over his stomach.
"A dinner meeting. Nothing unusual."
Elena's jaw tightened. "A dinner meeting with Blackthorne? With Alessia's people?"
He shrugged. "Connections are necessary in business. You know that."
Her pulse thundered. "Connections do not explain why the supplier I secured dropped us overnight. Or why investor confidence in Rossi plummeted the same day. Don't insult me with half-truths, Ferraro. Did you sell me out?"
---
In Elena's thoughts, he was supposed to be loyal. The one steady vote, the one voice that didn't doubt me in a room full of wolves. And yet here he is, shrugging as though betrayal is as natural as breathing. Was I blind? Or did grief for my father make me cling to any scrap of loyalty like a starving woman to bread?
---
Ferraro's eyes hardened. "You are too emotional, Elena. That's the problem. Business requires pragmatism, not pride. Rossi Textiles is drowning, and instead of accepting help, you cling to sentiment. Blackthorne offers stability."
Her nails dug into the wood. "Stability?" she spat. "Blackthorne does not save companies, Ferraro. They hollow them out, strip the bones, and leave nothing but ashes."
He rose slowly, leaning his fists on the table. "And perhaps ashes are better than the humiliation of watching Rossi fall under your command."
The words sliced deeper than she expected.
Her voice dropped to a whisper, raw and trembling: "My father trusted you."
Ferraro hesitated, just for a heartbeat, then straightened, his expression cold. "Your father is gone. And you... are not him."
The door creaked open.
Dante Moretti stepped into the room like a shadow cut from steel. His gaze swept the table, lingering on the photo before flicking to Ferraro. Calm. Calculated. Dangerous.
"Am I interrupting?" His voice was smooth, but the undertone was lethal.
Ferraro cleared his throat, shifting uneasily. "Just a discussion. Nothing more."
Elena turned on Dante, fury spilling out before she could stop it. "Perfect timing. Come see how quickly loyalty rots when Alessia starts whispering promises."
Ferraro bristled. "I do not answer to Alessia..."
"You do now," Elena snapped, cutting him off.
Dante moved closer, slow and deliberate, and placed a hand on the back of Elena's chair. His presence was a wall at her side. "If you plan to expose him publicly," he murmured, low enough for only her to hear, "don't. Not here. Not like this."
Elena's head whipped toward him. "And why not? He's a traitor."
"Because if you humiliate him in the boardroom," Dante said, his voice maddeningly calm, "you would not just lose him. You will lose the three votes that follow his lead. You will be isolated."
Her chest heaved. The logic burned because it was true.
Ferraro straightened his tie, glaring. "I do not need to explain myself further. Good day." He left, the door shutting behind him with a heavy thud.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
---
Elena rounded on Dante, anger trembling in her voice. "You knew, didn't you? You knew he was turning."
Dante met her gaze, unflinching. "Yes."
The honesty hit harder than a lie would have.
"And you said nothing?"
"I warned you." His eyes were steady, dark with something unreadable. "Not every knife in your back has my fingerprints. You refused to listen."
Her throat tightened. "So you let me walk into betrayal blind?"
"I let you learn." His tone softened, just slightly. "Because until you see it with your own eyes, you will always think the only enemy is me."
The words hung between them, raw and dangerous.
She saw something else in him then, not the ruthless tycoon, but a man carrying a weight she did not understand.
She looked away first, her chest aching. "I do not need your riddles. I need loyalty."
"Then choose wisely," Dante said, stepping back. "Because Alessia is not just buying board votes. She is buying your downfall."
---
Later That Night
Elena sat in her office long after dark, the city lights glittering beyond the glass. The boardroom confrontation replayed in her head. Ferraro's cold dismissal, Dante's steady voice, her own helpless fury.
Her inbox pinged.
A new email. No sender. No subject.
Her stomach sank.
She clicked.
The attachment was a draft report, her entire restructuring plan, already formatted like a leaked press article. Bold headlines accused her of recklessness, of gambling the last of Rossi's reputation on unsound strategies. The language was brutal, designed to ignite panic.
The plan was not even finalized. Only her inner circle had seen it.
Someone on the inside had betrayed her. Again.
Her hands trembled as she whispered into the dark office:
"God!, they are already inside my walls."
---
Elena closed her laptop, bile rising in her throat. Dante's voice echoed again in her memory. Not every knife in your back has my fingerprints.
Now she knew.
The knives were multiplying.
And one of them was being sharpened in her own camp.