Chapter 2 - Scorched Earth in Chicago
Back in the gilded cage of the Gold Coast, Vincent Moretti stood in the center of the walk-in closet, staring at the barren racks where designer dresses and tailored blazers had once hung. The only thing remaining was the heavy scent of vanilla and jasmine—the perfume Claire had worn since the day they exchanged vows in an empty cathedral at midnight.
On the island counter, nestled directly in the beam of the recessed halogen light, sat her platinum wedding band. Beside it was a formal envelope marked with the emblem of Chicago’s most ruthless divorce firm.
""Where is she, Marco?"" Vincent’s voice was barely a whisper, yet the two hulking capos flanking the arched entrance flinched as if a live grenade had rolled between their boots.
""Boss... the hotel receptionist said she checked out at dawn,"" Marco stammered, beads of cold sweat gathering along his shaved hairline. ""She took a yellow cab. She paid in cash. We checked her bank accounts—she didn't touch the offshore trusts. She didn't withdraw a single cent from the joint accounts. She took three hundred dollars from an ATM, her personal portfolio files, and a suitcase.""
Vincent slammed his fist onto the solid marble counter. The slab fractured down the center with a deafening crack. ""You're telling me my wife vanished into thin air in my city? On your watch?""
""We're checking the cameras, Don Vincent. But the rainstorm fried half the municipal traffic feeds downtown—""
""Find her!"" Vincent roared, turning on them with eyes dark with murderous rage. ""Put every soldier on the streets. Check every private airfield, every train station, every motel from here to Detroit! If anyone so much as looks at her wrong, peel their skin off. Bring my wife home!""
The guards scrambled backward, leaving Vincent alone in the quiet tomb of his bedroom. His chest heaved against his tailored silk shirt. He pulled his phone from his pocket, his thumb shaking as he redialed her number.
The number you have dialed is no longer in service.
A sickening sensation twisted his gut. For five years, Claire had been his anchor. She was the one pure thing in a world paved with betrayal and corpses. When he came home drenched in the stench of gunsmoke, her calm, steady hands would pour his bourbon and soothe the violent static roaring in his head. He had kept their marriage hidden, swearing it was to protect her from the rival syndicates.
Had he really protected her? Or had he simply locked her in a shadow box while he chased the phantom of a dead woman?
The door to the penthouse suite opened quietly. Sophia stepped inside, wearing an oversized cashmere sweater—one of Vincent’s—and holding two mugs of steaming coffee. Her delicate features, so eerily identical to Isabella’s, bore a practiced look of fragile concern.
""Vincent?"" she murmured softly, stepping across the hardwood. ""You didn't come to the office today. The board members are panicking about the quarterly audit. And... I heard yelling. Is Claire still being dramatic?""
Vincent froze. He turned his head slowly, his cold, predatory gaze fixing onto her face.
""Dramatic?"" he repeated, his tone dropping to subzero temperatures.
Sophia blinked, caught off guard. ""Well... yes. Walking out over a ride home during a storm seems entirely unreasonable. You were just being a gentleman, making sure I didn't catch pneumonia. She knows how delicate my health has been since—""
""She fell on the concrete,"" Vincent said, the realization hitting him like a hollow-point round straight through the ribs. He remembered the red puddle in the rain. He had thought it was a trick of the neon lights reflecting off the asphalt. He had told himself she was fine, that she was just throwing a jealous fit because he had chosen Isabella's double over her. ""She was bleeding, Sophia.""
""I'm sure it was just a scrape,"" Sophia whispered, placing a soft hand on his forearm. ""Vincent, you don't need a woman who constantly demands your attention when you're carrying the weight of the city. Let her cool off. She'll realize how good she had it and come crawling back.""
Vincent looked down at Sophia's hand on his sleeve. For months, the sight of her face had offered a twisted kind of comfort, an illusion that he could somehow rewrite the tragedy of his youth. But standing in his wife's empty, echoing closet, looking at the hand that had drawn his umbrella away from the woman who truly loved him, an overwhelming wave of disgust surged up his throat.
""Get your things,"" Vincent said, pulling his arm away so violently that Sophia stumbled.
""What?"" Her eyes widened in genuine panic.
""Pack your bags. Get out of my penthouse. Get out of my building. You're fired, Sophia.""
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""Vincent, you can't be serious! Over her? She's nobody!""
""She is my wife,"" Vincent snarled, drawing his sidearm from his shoulder holster and cocking the hammer with a sharp, lethal snap that echoed through the penthouse. ""And if you say her name again with that filthy mouth, Isabella's ghost won't be the only thing haunting this house. Get out.""
