Bound by Honor *2ND DRAFT*

I

January 15

Malcom POV

The Morettis are not the partners I would have chosen in private. Their reputation is a smear wrapped in cash and muscle. Still, alliances aren't made for likes or comforts; they're forged for leverage.

Malakai—wherever he hides these days—holds influence I can use, and Vittorio can open corridors I have yet to breach. That is the calculation; that is the business.

Estella and Easton are absent today, occupied with the company's daily knives and threads. Good. The less showboating, the better. Since I stepped back, they've run the firm cleaner than I used to—tighter margins, sharper contracts. I'll admit it: they've done well. I taught them everything worth knowing. If they're better, it's because I made them so.

"Let's begin," I said, keeping my voice even, the tone that makes a room search for the danger beneath it. "This arrangement will affect both industries. Estella assumes full control in one year. They must know each other's business—and each other—before they face bankers, donors, or cameras. They will be visible. They must appear unified."

Vittorio Moretti inclined his head like a man accustomed to threats, learning to smile through them. "Yes, yes. With this, we expand our region. Not just ours—yours as well. Territory, Mr. Roy. We build together." His words were sugar over iron; I heard it.

"Resources," I said, firm. "Estella needs access on demand. Not requests, not negotiations. Access." I watched him, mapping every twitch of his face. "She won't ask for it in public—she won't need to. But the right to move funds, assets, and influence must be guaranteed. No ambiguity."

"That can be done, Mr. Roy," Vittorio replied smoothly, but his smile never reached his eyes. His lie was practiced.

"And their public image," I added, because it had to be said. "Whatever else you are, to the world, you will be respectable. You will be prestige. Outside observers must never see the machinery." My tone dropped, the chill that precedes a blade. "If you wish to operate in my city, you will wear the suit I prescribe."

Vittorio's smile tightened, almost predatory. He seemed to measure whether I was a man who could be snapped. Then he turned toward Vanessa—a courtesy to decorum—and offered a charm he did not earn. "That can be done, but—" he began.

"Vittorio, don't start with me," my wife said, a practiced irritation evident in her voice. Silk over steel.

He raised his hands, warding off a reprimand. "Yes, yes. Of course. We are partners."

Partners. The word tasted like a contract with a hidden clause. I recorded it in my mind: demands to be written, guarantees to be notarized, contingencies for betrayal. I imagined signatures signed in fonts and blood—figuratively—understanding exactly where his promises would fray: at the edges where convenience meets conscience.

"There will be oversight," I concluded, closing my tone like a vault. "Regular audits. Joint counsel. And one more thing: any attempt to leverage this union to expand illicit activities under the Roy banner is a declaration of war. I will not hesitate."

Vittorio's eyes flickered—a brief, honest acknowledgment. A man used to shadows recognizes a sincere threat. He nodded, slow and careful. "Understood."

Good. Words on a page mean nothing until they have teeth. I would see these promises written, notarized, and enforced. I would watch his family like an accountant audits a suspicious balance sheet.

Heels whispered across the marble as someone exited to fetch drinks. Small gestures—reminders of civility—but my calculation remained. This marriage is a merger, and I will not sign off until every line favors the Roy ledger.