Chapter 3 - The Ghost on the Pier
The private investigator Adrian hired had cost him three million dollars, and after eighteen months of dead ends, he was thrown out of Adrian's office with a broken nose.
Adrian sat at his desk in the Moretti Tower, his eyes bloodshot, his beard rough and untrimmed. He had lost twenty pounds. The board of directors had begun whispering about his erratic behavior. He had systematically dismantled the Petrov syndicate, turning Chicago's underworld into an ash heap in his ruthless crusade to uncover any detail, any whisper of who had facilitated Claire’s transport out of the city. But the Petrovs hadn't helped her escape. No one had. She had slipped away entirely on her own strength.
Marco walked into the office without knocking, holding a single glossy photograph.
""What is it?"" Adrian asked, his voice gravelly from lack of sleep and tobacco.
""A freelance maritime surveyor took this three weeks ago in northern California,"" Marco said, laying the picture on the blotter. ""He was documenting coastal erosion around Mendocino County.""
Adrian grabbed the photograph with trembling hands.
The image was taken from a distance, capturing a weathered timber pier battered by emerald waves. Standing at the edge of the pier, wrapped in a forest-green cable-knit sweater, was a woman looking out toward the setting sun. Her hair was whipping across her profile in the sea spray, but there was no mistaking that posture—the proud, straight back, the delicate curve of her jaw, the slight shift in her weight that favored her right leg.
Claire.
Adrian’s breath stopped. A violent surge of emotion—relief, agony, raw obsession—ripped through his chest. He touched the glossy paper with the tip of his thumb, as if he could feel the warmth of her cheek across the glossy print.
""She’s alive,"" he whispered.
""She's living under the name Claire Vance,"" Marco reported quietly. ""She owns a bakery and bookshop. No security detail. No weapons. No bank trail; she bought the property through an old offshore trust set up by her maternal grandfather thirty years ago. Adrian... she looks happy.""
Those three words hit Adrian like a physical blow. She looks happy.
Without him. Without the Moretti billions, without the armed escorts, without the penthouse overlooking the skyline. She had built a sanctuary out of flour, paper, and ocean air, while he had spent the last two years rotting alive in a tomb of his own making.
""Prep the Gulfstream,"" Adrian commanded, standing up so abruptly his chair overturned.
""Boss, wait,"" Marco cautioned, standing his ground. ""You can't just drop in there with a dozen armed men. She isn't a prisoner who escaped. She’s your former wife who walked away. If you corner her, she’ll run again. Or worse, she will look at you like an enemy.""
""I don't care how she looks at me,"" Adrian snarled, grabbing his coat. ""She is my wife. She belongs by my side. She was kidnapped under my watch, and I left her in that dark room. I have to make her understand why I did it.""
""And if she understands and still doesn't want you?"" Marco asked boldly.
May you like
Adrian froze, his hand paused on the brass handle of the heavy mahogany door. The silence in the room stretched until it felt suffocating.
""Then I will spend the rest of my life kneeling at her feet until she does,"" Adrian replied coldly. ""Have the jet on the tarmac in forty minutes.""
