Chapter 1 - The Shattered Empire
The silence inside the three-story penthouse on the Las Vegas Strip was deafening. It was the kind of heavy, suffocating silence that made a man’s ears ring.
Vincent Moretti stood anchored to the Italian marble floor of the kitchen island, clutching the crinkled edges of the medical reports until his knuckles turned bone-white. The diamond wedding ring—the one he had personally selected from Harry Winston, boasting seven carats of flawless clarity—glinted mockingly in the soft pendant lighting. It sat directly atop the coroner’s autopsy waiver and the ultrasound printout.
A tiny, indistinct smudge of grey. That was all it was. A flicker of life that had existed inside his wife while he was laughing over espresso at Red Rock Canyon, listening to Isabella complain about a high-roller boyfriend who didn’t buy her the right jewelry.
"God," Vincent rasped, the sound tearing out of his throat like rusted metal.
His knees buckled. For the first time in thirty-four years, the undisputed sovereign of the Venetian underground fell to his knees on his own polished kitchen tile.
His cell phone vibrated violently against the granite counter. Isabella’s name flashed across the screen.
Vincent, baby, did you leave your leather jacket in my suite? Call me, I’m getting lonely.
Vincent stared at the screen through bloodshot eyes. A violent tremor raced up his arms. With a sudden, guttural roar, he seized the heavy crystal decanter of Louis XIII cognac from the side table and hurled it straight into the mirror-backed bar. The explosion of amber liquor and shattered glass echoed through the vacant two-million-dollar penthouse.
"Marco!" he bellowed.
The heavy front door swung open instantly. Marco, his head of personal security, stepped into the foyer with his weapon half-drawn, eyes darting across the room. He froze when he saw his boss—a man who had stood unshaken before federal indictments and rival cartel capos—kneeling amidst shattered crystal, clutching a stack of papers to his chest.
"Boss?" Marco breathed, lowering his pistol.
"Where is she?" Vincent whispered, his voice cracking into jagged shards. "Where did she go?"
"Mrs. Moretti's car was found at Harry Reid International two hours ago, sir. Abandoned in long-term parking. Her personal credit cards were terminated, her bank accounts closed. She transferred her liquidated trust into an offshore blind account through a private firm in Zurich."
"I don't care about the money!" Vincent roared, scrambling to his feet, lunging across the island to grab Marco by the lapels of his suit. "Find her! Hire every private investigator from here to London. Call every airport, train depot, and private airstrip. If she breathes, I want to know where she draws breath! If she sleeps, I want to know whose roof is over her head!"
"Boss, she left legal representation," Marco replied cautiously, his voice tight. "Evelyn Vance. The top shark at Vance & Sterling. Miss Vance already served notice to our legal team. Any contact attempted by you or your associates will result in an immediate federal restraining order. She documented the hospital emergency report, Vincent. The domestic endangerment claim... it’s airtight."
The words struck Vincent like a sledgehammer to the chest. Domestic endangerment. His own hands had smeared that cream on her lips. He had told her she was dramatic. He had dismissed her choking breaths while he took Isabella upstairs to choose a movie.
"Get out," Vincent whispered, releasing Marco's lapels.
"Sir?"
May you like
"Get out, Marco. And bring Isabella to the Bellagio basement office. Now."
The guard dipped his head and vanished, leaving Vincent alone in the wreckage. He picked up the ultrasound once more, holding it against his chest as the first tear in twenty years carved a burning line through the dust on his cheek.
