CHAPTER 38: TALK ABOUT GREG SANTOS

"After what we’ve seen, it’s obvious that Alisha is more than capable of walking beside Katherine," Maxine began the moment they stepped back into the meeting room. Her voice carried a certain smug confidence, every word deliberately enunciated so Stella couldn’t mistake her meaning. Then, with a sharp tilt of her head, she added, "Or would you prefer another kind of test, Stella?" Her attention shifted fully to the other woman, her gaze almost daring her to say yes.

Stella’s lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line. For once, the woman who always had something to say was completely silent.

She didn’t need to respond—everyone in the room had witnessed it. Nix had seen it. Helen and Allison had seen it. Even Katherine, though she wouldn’t admit it, had felt it. Alisha wasn’t just holding her own beside Katherine. She was better. Her posing, her expressions, her natural ease in front of the camera—they all spoke for themselves.

Katherine sat rigidly in her chair, her manicured nails digging into her thigh under the table. She hadn’t said a word since they returned, but her silence wasn’t peace—it was fury. The corner of her mouth twitched every so often, as if holding back the urge to lash out in front of everyone.

"Since everything is settled," Nix said, breaking the tense quiet, "Alisha, do you still want to sign with us?" She wore a faint smile, the kind that made it clear she already knew the answer.

"Definitely," Alisha replied without hesitation.

And just like that, the deal was sealed. The lawyer laid out the contract in front of her, explaining each clause in detail, while Maxine, ever the meticulous manager, leaned in to ensure Alisha understood every single word. They weren’t leaving room for misunderstandings or loopholes—not when the stakes were this high.

By the time Alisha signed her name, Stella still hadn’t spoken again. Katherine looked like she wanted to storm out, but pride kept her glued to the chair until the meeting was officially adjourned.

As soon as they stepped outside, Maxine smirked, glancing at her client. "I bet that woman is already plotting something against you right now." Her tone wasn’t fearful. It was amused, almost excited, like she was looking forward to the fight.

Alisha smiled faintly. "Without a doubt. But I’m ready for her."

After a quick exchange of parting words, Alisha went her separate way.

By then, the clock was nearing 6 p.m. just the right time. The person she needed to follow would be leaving work soon, and she had nothing better to do at home. Her mind was set; she was going to tail Mr. De Rossi.

When she reached Unity Tower, she pulled into a spot across the street, her eyes fixed on the towering glass-and-steel structure. The building loomed over the city like a silent ruler, housing offices where decisions were made that could either build empires or ruin lives overnight.

With a quiet exhale, Alisha reached for her disguise: a blonde wig that fell in loose waves, colored contact lenses that shifted her eye color entirely, and an oversized coat to hide her figure and dress. The transformation was quick but effective—she looked like a completely different person.

She’d been waiting for this opportunity ever since Dante’s conversation with Lucas Tedoro. The moment Mr. De Rossi’s name had come up, Alisha knew she had to find out more about the man.

Ryan was tied up with another task—tracking the source of illegal arms shipments. That investigation was proving more difficult than expected; no witnesses had survived the last attack, leaving them with nothing but dead ends and burned warehouses.

Alisha’s focus snapped back when movement caught her eye. Mr. De Rossi emerged from the building, moving with the kind of ease only a man used to power possessed. He didn’t glance around, didn’t check for tails—either he was extremely confident or extremely careless.

He slipped into his sleek black car, and Alisha immediately started her engine.

She expected him to head toward some underground business operation, maybe a hidden warehouse or a private office. But instead, he stopped at a bar—a place that looked ordinary from the outside but was far from casual.

The bouncer at the door didn’t even ask for ID, stepping aside the moment Mr. De Rossi approached. The man was clearly a familiar face here.

Alisha parked a short distance away, adjusted her coat, and followed him in.

The bar’s interior was an assault on the senses, pulsing music shook the floor, and neon lights flickered across every surface. The air was thick with the smell of alcohol, sweat, and perfume.

She had barely taken two steps inside before trouble found her.

"Hey, sweetheart," a man slurred, grabbing her wrist. His breath reeked of liquor so stale it could have been bottled a decade ago. "How much for your time tonight?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Let me go."

He didn’t. In fact, he tightened his grip, grinning like he’d won something.

Her patience evaporated. With one swift movement, she drove her knee upward, connecting squarely with his groin. He let out a strangled cry and released her instantly, curling into himself with a groan.

Without sparing him another glance, Alisha scanned the crowd.

No sign of Mr. De Rossi.

She weaved through the throng of dancing bodies, a glass in her hand to blend in, checking every booth, every shadowed corner. Still nothing.

A hiss of frustration escaped her lips. She’d lost him.

Her mind flickered back to the drunk who’d grabbed her. What if that hadn’t been random? What if he’d been planted there to stall her, giving De Rossi time to slip away?

Another hiss, sharper this time. Her fists curled. She had been so close.

Across the room, in a dimly lit corner, someone was watching her. A pair of half-lidded eyes followed her every movement, their owner’s lips curling into a knowing grin. Without a word, the man turned and moved toward a private booth, where three security guards stood like statues.

No card, no entry. Unless, of course, you were Mr. De Rossi—he didn’t need one.

Inside the booth, Dante sat waiting, his expression tight.

"What took you so long?" he demanded the moment his father stepped in.

Mr. De Rossi didn’t flinch. "Not even a simple greeting, Dante? You call me at the last minute and this is how you start the conversation?"

"I didn’t call you here to exchange pleasantries. I have bad news."

Unbothered, De Rossi poured himself a glass of amber liquor, the ice clinking softly. "Go on."

"The guns were stolen," Dante said flatly. "The warehouse was attacked by multiple groups. They burned the place, killed our men, and took the shipment."

His father’s expression didn’t change. If anything, there was a faint air of inevitability in his eyes. "I should have anticipated that," he murmured, taking a slow sip. "So, how do you plan to lure our enemies out and deal with them?"

Dante outlined the strategy he’d already gone over with Rico—every calculated risk, every step of the trap they were setting.

By the end, Mr. De Rossi nodded in approval. "I knew I could always count on you."

Dante leaned back, his face unreadable. "That’s not the main reason I called you here."

One of his father’s brows rose. "Then what is?"

"I want to talk about Greg Santos."