Chapter 2 - The Fall of a Corporate Prince
Rafael spent the next twenty minutes frantically apologizing to the empty space where Matteo Rossi had stood, alternating between calling me ungrateful and demanding that I pack my things the moment we returned to our cramped apartment.
I didn't yell. I didn't cry. I simply finished my sparkling water, stood up, and left him sitting alone with a thousand-dollar bottle of wine he couldn't afford to pay for without his company card.
When I unlocked the apartment door, the first thing I did was pack my drafting tools, my portfolio, and my passport into a single duffel bag. I didn't care about the clothes, the microwave, or the IKEA couch we had bickered over for three days. I blocked Rafael's number, forwarded screenshots of his corporate plagiarism and the stolen architectural files to the senior ethics board at his firm, and walked out into the cool midnight air.
I didn't go to a hotel. I went straight to my sister’s house, helped her through her hospital scare the next morning, and stared at the little black business card resting on my phone screen.
Matteo Rossi.
A quick Google search on my phone made my breath hitch. Matteo Rossi wasn't just a wealthy tourist or a high-end investor. He was the reclusive head of the Rossi Syndicate—a massive international logistics and real estate conglomerate rooted deep in Milan, with whisper networks stretching across the Mediterranean and South America. Rumor had it that men like Rossi didn't just build skyscrapers; they decided which cities were allowed to grow.
Two days later, Rafael’s carefully constructed world imploded.
The ethics board received my documentation of his intellectual property theft just as he was walking into the boardroom for his formal partner-track announcement. Not only was he stripped of his promotion, but the firm suspended him pending a full fraud investigation. His shiny new sports car, financed entirely on the promise of his future salary, was repossessed by Tuesday afternoon.
And as for the woman with the red lipstick? She turned out to be a junior analyst from a rival firm who promptly blocked him the second he lost his title.
I was sitting in a quiet café downtown, sipping black coffee and reviewing job openings across the country, when my phone rang. An international number.
I swiped to answer.
“Isabela da Silva,” a familiar, gravelly voice spoke through the speaker. “You pack light. I respect that.”
May you like
“Mr. Rossi,” I said, sitting up straighter. “How did you get this number?”
“In my line of work, signora, finding what I want is never a challenge,” Matteo replied smoothly. “I am currently staying at the Copacabana Palace. Meet me in the lobby at four o'clock. We have a city to redesign, and I believe you are currently unemployed.”
