Chapter 3 - The Cold War Begins
I refused to return to the lakefront mansion. Knowing that forcing me back by physical violence would permanently destroy any remaining thread of affection, Adrian conceded—with conditions. He rented out the top three floors of the hotel, surrounding the entire property with five dozen heavily armed bodyguards. I was a prisoner, but a prisoner dressed in designer silk and served five-star meals.
By morning, the scandal erupted like wildfire across social media.
Sofia Russo had gone live on Instagram from an undisclosed hospital suite, sobbing delicately while clutching an ultrasound image. Her captions called out Adrian Moretti’s alleged cruelty and claimed his cold-hearted wife was forcing her into an illegal abortion. Within three hours, the video racked up twenty million views. Chicago’s tabloid vultures swarmed the front lobby, demanding statements from the mafia kingpin and his reclusive heiress bride.
My phone rang with calls from board members, high-society patronesses, and distant relatives who had ignored me for a decade. I ignored every single one. Instead, I poured myself a black coffee and opened my laptop, pulling up the Bennett family financial records that Adrian had locked away in our private vault three years prior.
If my life was bought with money, I would buy my freedom with the exact same currency.
A knock sounded at the door. Marcus, Adrian’s right-hand enforcer, stepped inside carrying a heavy silver briefcase. The burly man, who had survived three separate gun battles, looked utterly terrified to meet my gaze.
“Mrs. Moretti,” he said respectfully, setting the case on the dining table. “The Boss asked me to deliver these to you. He said you have full authorization to audit any account under the Moretti crest.”
I popped the clasps open. Inside were encrypted flash drives, original property deeds, and a certified medical file bearing a red wax seal from the Department of Forensics.
“What is this, Marcus?”
“That is the Boss’s medical record from three years ago, ma’am,” Marcus answered quietly, staring at the floor. “Right after your wedding, the Boss underwent a medical procedure. He never wanted to burden you with the danger of bearing his surname. He made a permanent choice so that his enemies could never use an innocent child to bleed him dry.”
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My fingers froze against the crisp paper. I tore open the seal and read the physician’s signed declaration: Adrian Moretti had undergone a permanent vasectomy two days after putting a wedding ring on my finger.
The room seemed to spin. If Adrian was biologically incapable of fathering a child, Sofia Russo’s entire pregnancy was an impossible lie.
