readbooksol Chapter 222 - 32
Chapter 222 - 32
Narrator’s voice
Night pressed against the penthouse windows like a dark, polished mirror, turning the skyline into a blurred arrangement of glittering teeth. Isabella Moretti stood with one hand on her hip and the other loosely holding a glass of something expensive she didn’t actually care to finish. She cared only about the screen in front of her.
The documentary teaser replayed for the third time.
And she smiled.
Not with excitement.
Not with triumph.
With satisfaction — the kind that came when a plan unfolded exactly as expected.
Her reflection in the window smirked back at her. Flawless hair. Bold red lips. A dress that whispered more than it revealed. She liked looking untouchable, because the Romanos needed to believe she was exactly that.
Her phone buzzed.
One message flashed:
"Well done."
No name.
No avatar.
Just the message.
She didn’t need a name.
She knew exactly who it was.
And right on cue, the burner phone on the table lit up. The caller ID showed nothing. The line was encrypted. She picked it up and pressed it to her ear.
"They’re panicking," she said before the person could speak.
The response came, smooth but cold masculine, but altered just enough to avoid recognition.
"Of course they are. You did exactly what I needed you to do."
The voice dripped with restrained delight, the type only a person who thrived on destruction could muster. Isabella leaned against the glass, her lips curving.
"Navarro stock has already dropped eight percent," she reported calmly. "People are pulling out, not because they believe the allegations, but because they believe the chaos. Perception is half the war."
"And the other half?"
She took a leisurely sip from her glass.
"Fear."
A quiet hum came from the other end of the line. It was an approving one.
"Good. Very good."
Isabella crossed her ankles, watching the lights of Los Angeles twinkle beneath her.
"You wanted exposure," she continued. "You have it. But don’t get greedy — this is just the beginning. A teaser is meant to strike, not destroy."
"Yes," the distorted voice replied. "But it has already done more than you realize."
A dim silence filled the space between them.
"Jace Romano flew to New York. Emergency meeting." He told her.
Isabella’s brows lifted. "Already?"
"He’s scrambling. The board wants answers. Investors want stability. And Mira..."
A pause. Something dark seeped through the static.
"She’s unraveling."
Isabella didn’t flinch at Mira’s name, but something in her eyes sharpened.
"Pregnant women shouldn’t be under stress," she said, voice dispassionate. "You told me not to harm her."
"And I meant it," the voice snapped—sharper now. "She is not to be touched."
Interesting. Isabella tapped her thumb lightly against the glass.
"You’re protective of her."
"I’m strategic," the voice corrected, colder this time. "Destabilizing Jace requires breaking everything he thinks he has secured. His wife is part of that. She breaks, he breaks. He breaks, the empire cracks."
"And what happens when the empire cracks?"
Another pause.
"Then justice begins."
Isabella shifted her weight. "Justice? You keep using that word like it means something noble. But you want destruction. Nothing more."
The villain laughed. It came out as a low, grainy sound.
"Isabella... if you think this is about destruction, then perhaps you’ve forgotten why you agreed to this."
Her jaw tensed.
She didn’t forget.
Not for a second.
She remembered the stories whispered across journalist circles — how the Romanos silenced people without leaving a trace. How Don Vittorio’s empire swallowed voices whole. How Jace inherited power he pretended not to use.
And she remembered her father, a man who dared to speak against a mafia family and never came home.
"Don’t worry," she replied coolly. "I know exactly why we’re doing this."
She took another sip from her glass, the bitterness grounding her.
"People think documentaries are about truth," she said. "They forget they’re also about narrative. And I’m shaping one that the world will eat up."
The villain’s voice lowered.
"Your job is only beginning." He reminded her.
Isabella smiled again, slow and calculating. "I never said I was done."
The line fell quiet for a moment.
Then—
"Mira went into panic," the villain said, almost softly. "I need you to push just enough pressure to keep her unsteady. But not enough to harm her or the child. Is that clear?"
Isabella turned away from the window.
"I am not targeting her," she said flatly. "I’m targeting the story."
"No," the villain replied, tone shifting to an eerie calm. "You’re targeting the Romanos. Don’t soften the blow now."
A tense quiet hung between them.
Finally, Isabella picked up the remote, replaying the teaser again.
"This is going viral," she stated. "But I’m warning you — lines blur fast. If anything happens to that woman or her baby, I won’t be involved."
A faint chuckle followed.
"You have too much sentiment."
"And you have none." She retorted.
"That is why we are effective together."
Isabella rolled her eyes. "Goodbye."
She ended the call before the villain could reply.
The room fell into silence again, the teaser looping in front of her. It was a twisted lullaby built from reputation and speculation.
A soft chime sounded behind her.
She glanced back at it as her laptop lit up with an inflow of notifications:
200K new views.
Trending #1 worldwide.
Stock update: NAVARRO CORP -12.3%.
Public statement requests from six major networks.
She exhaled slowly.
The empire was cracking.
Just enough.
And she wasn’t finished.
Not even close.
~
Meanwhile, thousands of miles away, in a dimly lit office overlooking Manhattan, the villain set his phone down on the desk with deliberate calm.
The lights were off.
Only the glow from the city illuminated the room, casting long shadows across the walls.
On the desk were three items:
A silver ring.
A yellowed photograph of a younger Don Vittorio.
And a newspaper clipping with the headline:
BRUTAL EXECUTION OF ROMANO INSIDERS — NO SURVIVORS.
The villain traced a finger along the edge of the photo, jaw tightening.
"Soon," he whispered.
"Very soon."
The city buzzed outside, unaware that someone dressed in patience and vengeance was preparing to finish the work they should’ve done years ago.
And far from both of them, in a quiet house in Los Angeles, Mira Romano lay awake, hand on her stomach, waiting for her world to make sense again unaware that the storm had only just begun.