Chapter 2 - Walking Out into the Cold
Margaret tried to block the grand double doors of the mansion. Her aristocratic mask had slipped, replaced by raw terror as she realized the dynasty she cherished was imploding in real time. ""Claire, you can't walk out of this house! You are a Moretti by blood and vow. The family does not divorce. Think of the empire! Think of what people will say!""
""My daughter is in that urn, Margaret,"" I said, looking right through the matriarch who had spent seven years treating me like an inconvenient outsider. ""Your family died the moment Lily closed her eyes. Get out of my way.""
Marco stepped forward, resting a hand near his lapel, his stance leaving no doubt where his loyalty lay. Margaret shrank back, terrified of her own son’s enforcers, and I walked through the iron gates with a single suitcase and Lily’s urn held securely against my chest.
Vincent followed me out into the crisp November air, stumbling barefoot across the gravel driveway. ""Claire! Claire, take the Lake Forest mansion. Take the accounts in Switzerland. Take half the syndicate's clean real estate! Just don't take Lily away from me. Let me bury her. Let me give her a proper service!""
I turned around at the passenger door of Marco’s sedan. ""You don't get to play father at her funeral when you couldn't be bothered to be one at her deathbed. Lily’s service was yesterday. Just me, the nurses who tried to save her, and the chaplain. She’s already at peace, Vincent. You’re the only one who has to live in hell.""
I slid into the car and closed the door. In the rearview mirror, as Marco accelerated down the winding private road, Vincent fell forward onto the asphalt, punching the stone ground until his knuckles bled. The great king of Chicago looked like a broken beggar in the dust.
We drove south toward downtown, leaving the suburban compound far behind. My heart felt hollowed out, scooped clean of warmth, but my mind was laser-sharp. For years, I had quietly managed the legitimate books for Moretti Enterprises—the commercial shipping lines, the luxury boutique hotels, the import-export distribution hubs. Vincent had assumed I was merely balancing receipts like a dutiful housewife. He had forgotten that before I married him, I graduated top of my class in corporate finance from Northwestern.
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I knew where every dollar was hidden. I knew which shipping containers carried legitimate automotive parts and which carried unregistered cargo. More importantly, I knew the identity of the federal prosecutor who had been trying to build a clean Rico case against the Moretti family for a decade: Marcus Vance.
I wasn’t going to run away and hide in fear. I was going to strip Vincent Moretti of every single title, asset, and ounce of respect that he had prioritized over our little girl.
