Chapter 4 - THE SUMMONS TO DELUCA TOWER
At precisely 9:55 AM on Saturday, the sleek black Lincoln Continental pulled up to the curb outside my modest apartment building in Astoria.
I stepped out of the front entrance wearing the best clothing I owned—a dark navy wool sweater, tailored trousers, and clean black boots. My left hand was neatly bandaged under a soft leather glove.
The driver, a polite man named Thomas, opened the rear door for me with a gentle bow.
“Good morning, Miss Martinez,” Thomas said. “Mr. DeLuca is waiting for you at corporate headquarters.”
We drove across the Queensboro Bridge in comfortable silence, the morning sun gleaming off the steel towers of Midtown Manhattan. As we approached 57th Street, the car pulled into the private underground garage of DeLuca Tower—an eighty-story monolith of black glass and polished bronze that dominated the skyline.
A private glass elevator whisked me directly to the penthouse floor.
When the doors slid open, I stepped into an magnificent executive office spanning the entire top floor. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a breathtaking 360-degree view of Central Park and the Hudson River.
Victor DeLuca stood near a long oak conference table, wearing a crisp dark grey suit without a tie, holding a cup of black coffee.
Beside him stood three men in sharp charcoal suits—his chief legal counsel, his head of public relations, and a security director holding a thick black tablet.
“Anna,” Victor said, setting his cup down and walking over to meet me. “Thank you for coming.”
“Good morning, Mr. DeLuca,” I said, looking around the intimidating office.
“Please, take a seat,” he said, pulling out a plush leather chair at the head of the conference table for me.
As I sat down, Victor stood beside my chair, looking down at his legal team.
“Where do we stand on the Caldwell filings?” Victor asked his chief counsel, a sharp-eyed man named Arthur.
“Richard Caldwell has called your executive assistant eleven times since six AM,” Arthur reported smoothly. “The viral video has completely tanked Caldwell Properties' public stock rating. Two major pension funds pulled their investment capital at eight AM. They are facing a liquidity crisis by Monday morning.”
Victor nodded with cold satisfaction. Then he looked down at me.
“Anna,” Victor said softly. “Ethan Caldwell’s legal team released a statement an hour ago claiming that you attempted to extort him, tripped over your own feet, and that the video was edited to ruin his reputation.”
My hands tightened into fists in my lap, rage burning through my chest. “That’s a lie! He shoved me with both hands!”
“I know it’s a lie,” Victor replied gently. “Which is why we are holding a press conference in this building at one o'clock today.”
I blinked in surprise. “A press conference?”
“You are going to tell the truth to every major news outlet in the country,” Victor said firmly. “My legal team has already filed a civil assault lawsuit against Ethan Caldwell for ten million dollars. Every cent of that money will go directly to you.”
My jaw dropped open. “Ten million dollars?! Mr. DeLuca, I... I can't accept that! You’ve already done so much—”
Victor leaned down, placing his hands flat on the oak table, looking straight into my eyes with an intensity that made my heart leap.
“Anna, for six years you worked yourself to the bone while men like Ethan Caldwell looked through you like glass,” Victor murmured, his voice rich with quiet emotion. “Yesterday, he thought he could break you because you were standing alone. Today, you are standing with me. You will never be invisible again.”
Before I could answer, the executive elevator doors chimed and slid open.
A man rushed out into the lobby, his face red, his tie loosened, surrounded by two panicked security guards trying to restrain him.
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It was Richard Caldwell—Ethan’s father.
“DeLuca!” Richard roared, his voice shaking with furious desperation across the grand office. “What the hell are you doing to my family?!”
