Chapter 2 - The Syndicate and the SocietyWhile Dante spent his morning managing freight lines and municipal bribes at his downtown headquarters, Isabella was executing a quiet, flawless exit strategy.
She drove her car—a modest European sedan she bought with her own inheritance years ago—straight to a private bank in downtown Chicago. For eleven years, Dante had ensured she was well-provided for, giving her access to joint accounts and high-limit cards. But what Dante didn't know—what his meticulous security mindset had overlooked—was that Isabella had never touched her personal trust fund, inherited from her grandmother. It had sat untouched, accumulating interest, sitting quietly in an independent institution completely disconnected from Moretti holdings.
She liquidated a portion of the account into a secure cashier's check, transferred her vital documents—passport, birth certificate, real estate deeds under her maiden name—into a fireproof safety deposit box, and booked a one-way ticket to London under her middle name, Elizabeth.
Departure date: Six weeks from today.
Why six weeks? Because in the world Dante inhabited, patience was a weapon. If she left immediately, his security teams would track her within forty-eight hours. She needed time to lay false trails, clear her foundation obligations, and let Dante become so complacent in his double life that he wouldn't even notice the walls crumbling until she was already crossing the Atlantic.
By evening, Isabella was back at the stone house, calmly organizing a charity gala dinner for the Moretti Foundation.
Dante arrived home late, loosening his tie as he walked into the study where Isabella sat reviewing guest lists. He looked tired, the hard lines of his jaw softened by a strange, absent-minded distraction that made her stomach turn.
"Vivien was at the chamber of commerce lunch today," Dante said casually, pouring a glass of scotch at the mahogany wet bar.
Isabella didn't look up from her tablet. Her heart skipped a single beat, then resumed its steady, rhythmic pace. "Oh? I didn't realize she was back in the business advisory circles."
"Her family’s shipping firm is bidding on the St. Lawrence Seaway expansion," Dante said, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "She’s heading the restructuring. She asked about you."
She asked about you.
Translation: Vivien wanted to know how much longer the inconvenient wife was going to occupy her rightful place at Dante’s side.
"How polite of her," Isabella murmured, finally raising her eyes to meet his. "Did you tell her I’m entirely consumed by the foundation's pediatric wing?"
Dante frowned, stepping closer to the desk. He took a sip of his scotch, his eyes narrowing slightly as he tried to read her expression. He was used to women who grew jealous, who threw plates or demanded explanations. Isabella’s chilling composure unnerved him.
"Isabella, is everything alright between us?" Dante asked, setting his glass down. "You’ve been... unusually quiet these past few weeks. If this is about the long hours—"
"You have a business to run, Dante, and I have a foundation to manage," Isabella interrupted, her tone polite, detached, and utterly chilling. "We are adults. We understand the architecture of our marriage."
Dante stared at her for a long, uncomfortable moment. He couldn't put his finger on it, but something in her eyes had shifted. The warmth—the quiet, unconditional devotion she had offered him for over a decade—seemed to have evaporated, replaced by a polished, impenetrable glass wall.
May you like
"Yes," Dante muttered, turning away. "We understand each other."
He walked out of the study, heading toward his private phone room to take an encrypted call. He had no idea that every second he spent justifying his revived romance with Vivien Cross was another nail in the coffin of his marriage.
