Chapter 5 - THE KNOCK ON THE PENTHOUSE DOOR
A sharp, demanding knock echoed through the private penthouse office.
Rap. Rap. Rap.
Nora, Niko’s chief of security and tactical coordinator, stepped out from the side monitoring room, holding an encrypted tablet.
"Boss," Nora said, her voice calm and clipped. "Victoria Whitmore and her husband just cleared the private elevator bank. They're at the door."
Niko didn't look away from Ava. "Let them in."
Nora pressed a button on the wall console, and the heavy oak doors unlocked with a heavy pneumatic click.
Richard Whitmore burst into the room first, his face red and sweating, followed closely by Victoria, whose posture was as rigid and cold as a marble monument.
Bianca lingered in the hallway, peeking in through the crack with venomous eyes.
"Niko!" Richard blustered, trying to force a desperate, ingratiating smile. "Thank goodness you're here. There’s been a terrible misunderstanding. That ungrateful girl—Ava—she’s emotionally unstable. She stole family property and tried to extort us—"
"Shut up, Richard," Niko said.
The words were quiet, but they carried the weight of an avalanche.
Victoria stepped past her husband, her sharp eyes scanning the room until they landed on Ava standing near the fireplace, wrapped in Niko’s cashmere coat.
"Mr. Moretti," Victoria said, her voice dropping into a smooth, controlled cadence. "Surely you aren't listening to the fabrications of a disgraced seamstress over a family that has contributed millions to this city's cultural development."
Niko walked slowly around his glass desk, coming to a halt directly in front of Victoria.
At six-foot-four, he loomed over her like an executioner.
"Cultural development, Victoria?" Niko asked, his voice dripping with icy contempt. "Is that what you call burning down a woman's studio and stealing her life's work?"
Victoria’s composure flickered for a fraction of a second. A tiny muscle twitched near the corner of her left eye.
"You have no proof of such absurd allegations," Victoria said stiffly.
Niko reached down, picked up the tiny gold key with the black rose from his desk, and held it out on the flat of his palm.
"This key," Niko said softly, "opens a safety deposit box at the Commonwealth Bank containing the original patent filings, the tax receipts, and the notarized confession of the corrupt city inspector your husband bribed to sign off on the studio fire in 2016."
Victoria stared at the key.
The color drained from her face so fast she looked like a corpse standing in broad daylight.
"Where... where did you get that?" she whispered, her voice losing its polished veneer.
"From the dress," Niko replied, his eyes locking onto hers with terrifying clarity. "The dress Ava made with her own hands, preserving the exact hemline her mother stitched ten years ago. A hemline your daughter so helpfully ripped open in front of three hundred witnesses."
Richard Whitmore staggered backward, crashing against the mahogany bookshelf. "We're ruined..."
"You were ruined the day you decided to steal from Eleanor Monroe," Niko said, turning his back on them. "Leo. Escort our guests out of my building. And make sure the federal prosecutor's office receives copies of the audit files waiting on my desk."
"Right away, Boss," Leo said, stepping into the doorway and grabbing Richard firmly by the elbow.
May you like
Victoria didn't wait to be escorted. She turned on her heel, her head held high in desperate, dying pride, and marched toward the private elevator without uttering another word.
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