Chapter 2 - The Fire in the TowerAt 8:00 AM Central Standard Time, the fifty-story Moretti Global Headquarters on Michigan Avenue in Chicago was in a state of apocalyptic fury.
The grand executive suite on the top floor had been locked down by thirty armed Moretti capos. Glass fragments from a shattered crystal decanter covered the Persian rug, and the heavy walnut desk bore deep gouges from where Alexander Moretti had slammed his heavy signet ring down in violent rage.
At thirty-six, Alexander was a terrifying figure—six-foot-three, broad-shouldered, with sharp, predatory features and dark eyes that usually brought grown men to their knees. But today, his charcoal suit jacket was thrown over a chair, his dark hair disheveled, his face gaunt and pale as he stared at the security footage playing on the wall monitors.
The footage showed me standing behind the half-open balcony door at 10:14 PM the previous evening. It captured the exact second my face went pale, the exact second I heard Richard declare: "The Moretti empire belongs to me and the daughter I have with Sophia."
And it captured me stepping back into the shadows, picking up Noah, and smiling warmly at Alexander twenty minutes later before going upstairs.
"BOSS!" Leo Russo, Alexander's chief lieutenant, burst through the double doors, holding a digital tracking tablet, sweating profusely. "We tracked the tail number of the private jet that cleared O'Hare at 4:15 AM! It was a Gulfstream G650 registered to Vance Global Defense!"
Alexander spun around, his storm-gray eyes wide with wild, frantic disbelief. "Vance?! Marcus Vance?!"
"Yes, boss," Leo stammered, backing up a step. "And... and there’s more. Mrs. Moretti didn't leave a single piece of jewelry behind. But she left this on your nightstand."
Leo set a small silver USB drive flat on the walnut desk.
Alexander lunged forward, plugging the drive into his console. A single text file appeared on the high-definition display:
ALEXANDER,
I heard every word on the balcony.
I left your diamonds. I took my children.
Noah’s blood will never touch Sophia’s daughter.
Do not send your men. Marcus Vance commands the perimeter now.
— CLAIRE BENNETT
Alexander let out a low, guttural roar, sweeping the entire desktop display onto the floor, the metal casing clattering violently against the baseboards!
"FIND HER!" Alexander thundered, his voice echoing off the concrete walls like an explosion. "GET THE JETS READY! CALL THE PORTS IN LONDON, PARIS, AND ZURICH! I DON'T CARE IF YOU HAVE TO TEAR DOWN EUROPE PIECE BY PIECE! BRING MY WIFE AND MY SON BACK TO CHICAGO!"
The heavy mahogany double doors opened again.
His father, Richard Moretti, walked into the executive suite, holding a gold-headed cane, his face cold and unbothered.
"Calm down, Alexander," Richard sneered, walking over to the bar to pour himself a glass of scotch. "So the girl heard us and ran to her father's old friend. It changes nothing. She has no money, no security, and no standing in Europe. We will freeze her accounts by noon and force her to hand over the boy for Isabella's procedure."
Alexander turned on his father with a voice so terrifyingly feral that even Leo Russo drew his sidearm in reflex.
"FORCE HER?!" Alexander thundered, grabbing his father by the lapels of his thousand-dollar coat, pulling the older man's face two inches from his own. "YOU TOLD ME SHE WOULD NEVER FIND OUT! YOU ASSURED ME WE COULD PAY HER OFF AND KEEP HER IN LAKE FOREST! NOW SHE IS IN THE HANDS OF MARCUS VANCE!"
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"She is a schoolteacher's daughter, Alexander!" Richard snapped, shoving his son's hands away. "She is nothing without the Moretti name!"
"She isn't just a schoolteacher's daughter, Father," Alexander whispered, his voice dropping into a desperate, hollow rasp as he realized the horrific scope of what he had lost. "She is the woman I spent seven years pretending to love... until I realized she was the only real thing in my godforsaken life."
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