“But you will no longer hold an executive title at Moretti Capital, nor will you sit on the charitable foundation board,” Vincent declared.
Ethan flinched as though a whip had struck his ribs, looking across the table at Noah, whose face remained an impassive mask of stone.
“You’re replacing me with him,” Ethan whispered, his voice trembling with bitter, toxic resentment.
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“I am not replacing anyone, Ethan,” Noah spoke up, his deep, resonant baritone commanding the room with effortless natural power.
“I have no interest in your father’s tainted money, his private jets, or his corrupt corporate empire,” Noah stated with absolute clarity.
Vincent looked at Noah, his expression softening into an agony of desperate longing that made his proud jaw tremble.
“Noah, everything I built… the seventy operating companies, the shipping lines, the commercial towers… they belong to you,” Vincent pleaded.
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“You are a Moretti; you carry the blood of the men who built the Chicago waterfront with their bare hands,” Vincent urged, leaning across the table.
