Chapter 3 - The Ultimatum
I stood up so fast my chair scraped loudly against the floor. I grabbed Leo’s and Maya’s small coats, tossing them over my arms, and pulled my children close against my sides.
"We are leaving," I said, looking down at Luca with undisguised contempt. "And listen to me very carefully, Luca Moretti. You may own half of Chicago, you may buy politicians, and you may terrorize your staff, but you have no claim over these children. Legally, birth certificates list me as the sole parent. Emotionally, you forfeited your right to be called a father the night you walked out on me. Stay away from us."
I threw a hundred-dollar bill onto the table to cover the untouched bill and turned my back on him.
"Nia, wait!" Luca sprang up, knocking his chair over backward. It hit the floor with a loud crash that silenced the entire dining room. "You can't just walk away again! They are my blood! I have rights—"
"Try me," I threw back over my shoulder as I hurried toward the exit, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. "File a custody suit. Drag us into court and let the press dissect how the great billionaire Moretti abandoned his pregnant wife, only to discover years later that he threw away his own blood. Let's see how Wall Street reacts to that headline."
I didn't look back. I bundled Leo and Maya into a waiting cab outside, my hands shaking uncontrollably as I gave the driver our Evanston address.
When we finally got home, tucked safely behind the locked oak door of our modest brick bungalow, the adrenaline drained out of me, leaving me trembling in the dark hallway. I knelt down, pulling my twins into a tight, fierce embrace.
"Are we in trouble, Mama?" Maya whispered, burying her face in my neck.
"No, sweetheart," I lied smoothly, kissing the top of her head. "Everything is fine. Mama is right here. Nobody is taking you away."
But deep down, I knew I was lying to myself.
Men like Luca Moretti didn't just walk away from millions of dollars, let alone biological heirs carrying the Moretti name. Within forty-eight hours, the legal machine would begin to turn.
I was right.
By Thursday morning, a sleek black town car was parked outside my house. A man in a tailored charcoal suit—Marcus Vance, senior partner at Moretti’s primary corporate legal firm—stepped out, walking up our porch to ring the doorbell.
I opened the door before he could ring a second time, holding a mug of black coffee.
"Mrs. Carter," Marcus said politely, tipping his head. "Or should I say, Mrs. Moretti? Mr. Moretti has retained our services. We would prefer to settle this amicably before filing motions in the Family Court of Cook County."
"There is nothing to settle, Mr. Vance," I replied, my voice calm and resolute. "Luca has no legal standing. My children carry my surname. He abandoned the marriage voluntarily, and no birth certificate bears his name."
Marcus offered a thin, empathetic smile. "With all due respect, Nia—may I call you Nia? Billionaires of Mr. Moretti’s caliber do not lose custody battles, nor do they accept being shut out of their children's lives. If we go to court, our firm will initiate DNA testing immediately. Once paternity is established legally, a judge will grant visitation rights, joint custody stipulations, and injunctions restricting your relocation. Mr. Moretti is prepared to buy you a brownstone in Lincoln Park, set up trust funds of twenty million dollars for each child, and hire private security to ensure your privacy. But make no mistake: he will be in their lives."
I stared at the slick corporate lawyer, a cold fury rising in my chest. They thought they could buy my children. They thought money was the universal solvent that could erase six years of abandonment.
"Tell Luca," I said softly, leaning against the doorframe, "that he can keep his brownstone, his trust funds, and his blood money. If he wants a war, I will give him a war that will tear Moretti Global down to its foundation."
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Marcus’s polite smile vanished, replaced by a flicker of genuine caution. He handed over a thick manila envelope and turned back toward his car.
Inside the envelope was a single document: an invitation to meet Luca privately, off the record, at a neutral location that evening.
