Chapter 4 - The Hunt Through The Snow
The boardroom erupted into absolute chaos the moment the words left my lips. Board members were shouting, papers were flying, and corporate attorneys were scrambling for their secure phones. Vincent didn't look at the board. He didn't look at the millions of dollars evaporating from his net worth in real-time.
He looked only at me.
He lunged across the distance, his long strides closing the gap before Arthur could even raise a hand. But he didn't grab me with violence; his fingers hovered inches from my arm, trembling with an intensity I had never seen in him before.
""Claire, listen to me,"" he hissed, his voice raw, stripped of all corporate composure. ""You think you're hitting back at me, but you just threw yourself into the crosshairs. Patrick Miller—Sophia’s ex—isn't just some deadbeat husband. He's connected to the East Coast dock unions. The moment those financials go public, he will know where Oliver is, and he will tear Chicago apart to get to him. And he will come through you to do it.""
I looked up into the face of the man I had loved so desperately, searching for an ounce of truth, and found only the same calculating strategist who had abandoned me on hospital floors.
""You should have thought about that before you used me as a dummy shield for your real family, Vincent,"" I said quietly, stepping around him without hesitation. ""Your secrets aren't my burden to carry anymore.""
I walked out of the boardroom, flanked by Arthur and the federal marshals, leaving Vincent standing frozen in the ruins of his executive kingdom.
By the time I reached the lobby of the tower, the Chicago winter had turned vicious. Snow was falling in thick, blinding curtains, snarling traffic to a standstill. I slipped into the back of Arthur’s waiting town car, our destination a secure private bank on LaSalle Street to deposit the final patent deeds into an untouchable escrow account.
But three blocks from the tower, the town car came to a sudden, jarring halt.
A black heavy-duty SUV had swerved directly across the slush-covered intersection, blocking our path. Before our driver could shift into reverse, another dark sedan boxed us in from behind.
My heart hammered against my ribs. Arthur’s face drained of color as he fumbled for his phone to dial the authorities.
The driver of the lead vehicle stepped out into the swirling snow. He wasn't a corporate attorney or a private investigator. He was a broad-shouldered man with a scarred jaw, wearing a heavy tactical coat—Patrick Miller.
And he wasn't alone.
Three armed men surrounded the town car, tapping the barrels of their weapons against the reinforced glass.
""Open the doors, Mrs. Moretti!"" Miller's muffled voice roared through the glass over the howl of the blizzard. ""You cost me forty million dollars this morning when you froze those Belize accounts! You're going to come with us and sign them right back over!""
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Before I could even scream, the deafening roar of a modified V8 engine tore through the snowy street.
A matte-black armored truck smashed directly into Miller’s sedan, sending it spinning into a snowbank with a sickening crunch of twisted metal. The driver’s side door flew open, and Vincent Moretti stepped out into the freezing storm, a heavy steel crowbar in his bare hand, his eyes burning with lethal fury.
