Chapter 7 - The Uninvited GuestThe temperature in Lorenzo’s office dropped to absolute zero in a fraction of a second.
The name alone—Eleanor Vance—evoked the memory of shattered glass, a trembling old woman, and unbridled arrogance. The fact that she had managed to bypass the biometric security gates of Moretti Global wasn't just a security breach; it was an act of sheer, suicidal desperation.
“She’s accompanied by her husband, Harrison, and two men who appear to be private enforcers,” Elena added, her voice tight with suppressed anxiety as she tapped furiously on her tablet. “They bypassed the lobby cameras by taking the freight elevator from the loading dock.”
Lorenzo didn't panic. He didn't raise his voice. He simply turned away from the window, his jaw tightening into a hard, rigid line of absolute fury.
“They didn't come to talk,” Lorenzo said softly, his voice dangerously calm. He reached into the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a sleek, heavy black object, slipping it smoothly into the inner holster of his jacket.
I felt a cold knot form in my stomach. “Mr. Moretti—what are you going to do?”
“Stay here, Maya,” Lorenzo instructed, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that brooked no argument. “Elena, lock the executive corridor.”
Before Lorenzo could reach the door, a loud, heavy metallic crash echoed from the hallway outside.
Bang. Bang.
Someone was physically slamming against the heavy frosted-glass double doors of the executive suite.
The lock held for a second, then the reinforced glass shattered inward in a spiderweb of cracks, showering the reception floor with thousands of glittering shards.
Through the haze of dust and broken glass strode Harrison Vance. But he didn't look like the polished billionaire mogul from the charity gala anymore; his hair was disheveled, his tie was crooked, and his face was twisted into a desperate, feral mask of pure rage.
Right behind him pushed Eleanor Vance, her eyes wild, her designer suit wrinkled, and her expression contorted with venomous hatred. Flanking them were two massive men in dark suits, their hands bulging ominously beneath their jackets.
Lorenzo stepped smoothly in front of my desk, placing himself squarely between me and the intruders. His posture was relaxed, yet every muscle in his body was coiled like a spring.
“Harrison,” Lorenzo greeted, his voice dripping with lethal ice. “You must have a death wish to walk uninvited into my building.”
“You ruined us!” Harrison screamed, his voice cracking hysterically as he pointed a trembling finger straight at Lorenzo. “You froze our accounts! You seized our properties! We lost everything in less than twenty-four hours because of this—this nobody waitress!”
Eleanor shoved her husband aside, stepping forward, her eyes locking onto me with the fury of a cornered animal.
“It’s her fault!” Eleanor shrieked, pointing a manicured nail directly at my face. “That filthy little commoner ruined our lives! She humiliated me in front of society, and you destroyed a thirty-year empire over a gutter rat!”
She reached inside her large leather handbag with blinding speed.
My breath caught in my throat.
“Look out!” I screamed.
Before Eleanor could pull a heavy, matte-black revolver from her purse, Lorenzo moved with the terrifying speed of a striking viper.
In less than a second, he closed the distance between them, his hand shooting forward to clamp around Eleanor’s wrist with bone-crushing force. She let out a sharp cry of pain as the heavy gun slipped from her fingers, clattering loudly against the marble floor.
The two enforcers lunged forward to intervene, but Lorenzo spun fluidly, executing a devastating roundhouse kick that caught the first enforcer square in the chest, sending him crashing backward into the glass wall. The second enforcer reached for his holster, but before his hand could clear the fabric, a cold, metallic click echoed through the room.
Lorenzo’s Walther PPK was pressed firmly against the center of Harrison Vance’s forehead.
The entire room froze instantly.
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Harrison went completely rigid, his eyes crossing as he stared down the barrel of the gun. Sweat poured down his face in rivers, and his knees began to shake so violently he could barely stand.
“Move one inch,” Lorenzo whispered, his voice dropping into a register so dark, so absolute, that it vibrated in the marrow of everyone’s bones, “and I will scatter your brains across this million-dollar carpet.”
