Chapter 2 - The Glass Penthouse
Back in Chicago, the glass penthouse overlooking Lake Michigan was turning into an abattoir of shattered mirrors and broken mahogany.
Alexander Moretti stood in the middle of our master bedroom, holding the empty jewelry box that had once housed millions in heirlooms.
Every diamond he had ever gifted me was lying dumped on the vanity table like worthless gravel.
Beside the jewels lay my platinum wedding band, deliberately placed next to Noah’s silver baby rattle.
"Boss," Marcus whispered from the doorway, keeping his head low. "The private hangar security team just sent the runway footage. It wasn't an abduction."
Alexander didn't turn around. His knuckles were split open, bleeding freely onto the ivory carpet from where he had punched through the dressing room mirror.
"Say that again," Alexander said, his voice terrifyingly calm.
"Mrs. Moretti walked onto the tarmac holding both children," Marcus stammered, his pulse visibly jumping at his throat. "She entered the jet voluntarily. And Christian Vance boarded right behind her."
The room went dead silent.
Alexander closed his eyes, inhaling the fading scent of my vanilla perfume lingering on the bed sheets.
His mind flashed back to the balcony door.
He remembered the tiny rustle of silk he had dismissed as a gust of wind while his father was barking orders about the Swiss clinic.
She had heard it. Every cold, brutal word Richard had uttered.
"Call the air traffic division," Alexander ordered, his voice dropping into a register that made his toughest enforcers step backward. "Ground every private charter heading east over the Atlantic. If the tower refuses, burn their communications grid."
"We already tried, sir," Marcus answered, swallowing hard. "The transponder vanished twenty minutes after takeoff over Canadian airspace. Vance used a shell protocol through Zurich. We have no destination coordinates."
Richard Moretti strode into the bedroom, his silver cane clicking sharply against the hardwood floor.
The old man’s face was purple with fury, his breathing ragged.
"The cryo-bank was hit, Alexander!" Richard shouted, slamming his cane down. "The vault is wiped! The boy’s cord blood is gone! The doctors in Zurich say Maya doesn't have sixty days left!"
Alexander turned on his father with such ferocious speed that the older man actually recoiled.
Alexander grabbed Richard by the lapels of his tailored suit, pinning his own father against the wall.
"You pushed this," Alexander snarled, veins pulsing along his jawline. "I told you I would handle Claire. I told you she was never to know until the procedure was complete and she was protected!"
"Protected?" Richard spat, coughing against the grip. "She was an incubator! You went soft on that civilian girl! You spent seven years playing house, buying her mansions, treating her like royalty!"
"She is my wife!" Alexander roared, the sound echoing through the cavernous penthouse.
"Then why did she run, Alexander?" Richard mocked, his eyes bulging. "Because she knows what you are. And now she has your daughter’s life locked in a box, while you stand here weeping over empty jewelry drawers!"
Alexander let go of his father, sending him stumbling back into the hallway.
He looked down at my discarded wedding band on the vanity table.
For seven years, he had convinced himself that the lie was harmless, that he could keep me in a gilded cage forever while fixing the past in secret.
He had believed he could control every piece of the board.
"Find Christian Vance’s family," Alexander told Marcus quietly, picking up my wedding ring and sliding it into his pocket. "Find his bank accounts, his contacts, every safe house he ever leased."
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Alexander looked out the panoramic window at the black waters of Lake Michigan below.
"And send word to every syndicate from London to Milan," he added, his eyes turning to cold stone. "Fifty million dollars to whoever brings my wife and children home alive. Anyone who touches a hair on their heads will be buried under concrete."
