Chapter 180

ENZO’S POV

I let out a rich little chuckle, tilting my head in pure amusement.

“Che grinta” \[What a feisty one.\], I murmured under my breath.

“Straight to the business, va bene \[alright\]? Come, let me show you the first shipment of the new Moretti prototypes. We must ensure your customs paperwork matches the exact weight of my bellissime \[beautiful\] machines.”

On the surface, I gave her my best, most dazzling smile.

Putting on my charming, pretentious devil mask, I slipped into a role I had spent years perfecting. She thought I was just a wealthy businessman trying to flirt his way into her good graces.

Little did she know the poison that was pumping through my veins.

I didn’t care about importing sports cars. I didn’t care about the Verilli Group’s northern port terminal or their exclusive distribution pipelines.

I was here for one thing, and one thing only: Vendetta \[revenge\].

Blood for blood.

Twenty years ago, I was just a young boy in Milan when the almighty Verilli family ruined us. My father had trusted Leo’s father with a massive shipping merger. Instead, the Verillis robbed him blind, stripping away our wealth, our legacy, and eventually, my father’s life when he mysteriously turned up dead after the bankruptcy.

My family was left homeless, forced to live on the streets with nothing, crawling through the dirt while the Verillis built their empire on my father’s blood.

I had sworn a sacred oath on his grave that they would pay for this feud.

Every single one of them.

And yesterday, in that stuffy boardroom, the universe had handed me the perfect weapon.

I hadn’t requested Vicky to personally oversee my account because I needed her logistics skills.

No.

I had requested her because the second she walked into that boardroom, Leo Verilli’s entire body language shifted. The cold, untouchable king of the company became restless and irrational.

And that protectiveness he had toward her? That was beyond a normal boss-employee relationship.

Leo Verilli was even willing to call off a multi-million-dollar international transaction just to keep this girl away from me.

My intelligence reports said she was just the best friend of Leo’s daughter, Cindy Verilli, merely filling in for her while she was in London.

But I wasn’t an idiot.

A man like Leo doesn’t risk throwing away a multi-million-dollar partnership over an ordinary manager. There is surely a secret connection between them, and I’m going to make sure I exploit it to my advantage until Leo’s empire burns to the ground.

I moved my gaze slightly past Vicky’s shoulder, my eyes instantly locking onto the trembling girl standing right behind her.

I heard Vicky call her Freya yesterday.

I evaluated her in less than three seconds.

I took note of the way she clutched those tablets to her chest like a shield, the way her crooked glasses slid down her nose, and the terrified way she avoided my eyes.

She was meek, soft, and utterly fragile.

A weak little lamb, easy to manipulate and completely ripe to be used as a potential tool.

A weapon to penetrate their inner circle from the inside out.

Bene, molto bene \[Good, very good\].

“Still as sharp-tongued as ever, I see,” I chuckled, turning my back to Vicky, though I kept my tone light and playful.

“Come, let us take a look at the cargo manifest. Andiamo \[Let’s go\].”

I led them deeper into the giant, open-air warehouse, toward a row of covered luxury sports cars and wooden crates stamped with the official Moretti Autos crest.

“Here, we have the newly built aluminum engine components,” I explained, running a hand over the edge of a steel crate.

“And over there, the chassis layouts for the autumn line. Everything is weighted to the exact metric ton, as required by your northern port regulations.”

Vicky walked around the crate, her stilettos clicking loudly against the concrete floor as she inspected the shipping seals with a critical eye.

She’s taking in every single detail. Seems like it would be difficult to smuggle anything in under her watch.

I scoffed inwardly yet kept my face perfectly neutral.

Whatever. I’m Enzo Moretti for a damn reason. I always find my way. If the United States CIA hasn’t been able to get hold of me in the past five years, who the hell is she?

“Looks clean on the outside, Moretti. But what about the customs clearance stamps from the Milan port? Alaric told me you guys had some issues with missin’ paperwork on your last run.”

“Ah, the customs stamps,” I said, snapping my fingers together as if I had just remembered something.

“They are with my lead logistics coordinator in the office trailer across the yard. A small oversight, mi dispiace \[I’m sorry\].”

“No problem,” Vicky answered, turning around and crossing her arms.

“I need those original stamps before I authorize my crews to move a single crate. Where’s the trailer? I’ll go get ’em myself.”

“Ms. Grover, please, you do not have to walk all the way across the dusty yard,” I protested, playing the gentleman.

“I can send my assistant…”

“Nah, I’m already on my feet, and I want to see how your crews are loggin’ the manifests anyway,” Vicky interrupted, turning to Freya and sending the poor girl a warning glare.

“Freya, you stay right here. Keep your eyes on these prototypes and don’t let anyone touch the weight logs until I get back. Feel me?”

“Yes, Ms. Vicky,” Freya squeaked, nodding frantically. “I’ll stay right here.”

I smiled internally, a dark wave of satisfaction washing over me.

Perfect.

“Very well, bella \[beautiful\],” I said to Vicky, bowing my head slightly. “The trailer is just past the crane line. Take your time.”

Vicky snorted, turned on her heel, and marched out of the warehouse.

I watched with a smirk tugging at my lips until her shadow disappeared into the bright morning sun.

The second she was completely out of sight, the industrial noise of the harbor seemed to fade into the background. I turned slowly, my tailored suit rustling in the sea breeze as I stepped closer to Freya.

The poor girl immediately went rigid, clutching her tablet so tightly her knuckles turned white. She looked like she wanted to sprint out of the building.

I didn’t give her a dazzling smile this time. I let the fake, pretentious warmth drop from my face, my eyes turning cold and predatory as I stared down at her meek, shaking frame.

I stepped into her personal space, the scent of my expensive Italian oud cologne engulfing her senses.

“Freya, right?” I whispered, but it wasn’t a soothing whisper.

“Y-yes,” she muttered, her voice tremblin’ as she tried to back up against a wooden shipping crate. “Is… is there something you need me to log, Mr. Moretti?”

I leaned in closer, my voice dropping into a terrifying whisper that stripped away the playful, carefree businessman facade I had put on all morning.

“Tell-a me, Freya,” I murmured smoothly, my Italian accent somehow creeping its way back into my vocabulary.

“How is your mother? Is she still limping from that terrible accident last winter?”

Freya froze.

Her face turned pale as the tablet slipped from her fingers and smashed loudly against the concrete floor.