Chapter 4 - The Golden Cage Crumbles
Back in Chicago, the lakefront mansion that had once been Vivien’s quiet sanctuary had transformed into an arena of chaotic vulgarity.
Dante Moretti sat in his west-wing study, staring at a mountain of unpaid vendor bills and legal subpoenas. The house smelled of expensive French perfume, baby powder, and stale champagne. Downstairs, Bianca was screaming at the head housekeeper because the organic baby formula hadn't been flown in from Paris on time.
“I don’t care if customs delayed it!” Bianca’s shrill voice echoed up the grand stairwell. “Dante is the king of this city! Call the airport commissioner or I’ll have you fired by dinner!”
Dante pinched the bridge of his nose, his head throbbing with a persistent, dull ache.
It had been ten months since Vivien had walked out into the November frost. At the time, he had congratulated himself on handling the transition 'correctly.' He had believed Vivien would vanish into a comfortable suburban life, spending her modest divorce settlement on antique shops and garden clubs.
Instead, she had completely vanished off the face of the earth.
His investigators had tracked her to Milwaukee, then to a charter terminal, and then the trail had gone ice-cold. She hadn't cashed a single alimony check. She hadn't claimed the two million dollars Dante had deposited into her Chicago account. She had taken nothing except her own clothes and the maritime logistics shares she had legally owned prior to the marriage.
And without Vivien managing the books, the Moretti empire was coming apart at the seams.
Vivien had been the invisible gear that kept his sprawling syndicate running. She had known which dockworkers needed bonuses to prevent strikes. She had known which city council members were skimming too much off the concrete contracts. She had balanced the legal enterprises against the underground operations with mathematical perfection.
Bianca, on the other hand, knew only how to spend.
The door to the study swung open without a knock. Bianca marched in, wearing a silk robe trimmed with ostrich feathers, holding Dante Junior in her arms. At twenty-seven, she was stunning, but her petulant mouth and constant demands had long since stripped away whatever erotic novelty had originally captivated him.
“Dante,” she whined, leaning over his desk, letting the baby’s rattle clatter against his legal files. “The jeweler on Michigan Avenue called. The diamond tennis bracelet I ordered for my postpartum gift is ready. You need to wire the seventy-five thousand dollars.”
Dante looked up, his dark eyes shadowed with exhaustion and irritation. “The company accounts are frozen for the quarterly audit, Bianca. It will have to wait until next week.”
“Wait?!” Bianca’s face twisted into an ugly sneer. “You’re Dante Moretti! You control the entire North Side! How can you tell me to wait for a measly seventy-five thousand? When you took me from Miami, you promised me I would live like a queen! You said your barren old wife was holding you back!”
Dante’s jaw tightened, the muscle ticking violently beneath his gray-threaded beard. “Do not speak of Vivien.”
“Why not?” Bianca snapped, shifting the baby on her hip. “She couldn't give you what I gave you! I gave you your son! I gave you the Moretti heir! You owe me everything!”
Before Dante could answer, his brother Marco hurried into the study, his face pale and slick with sweat. He didn't even acknowledge Bianca.
“Dante,” Marco whispered, glancing nervously at the door. “We have an emergency. The Swiss creditor—Banque Cantonale—just initiated an involuntary foreclosure proceeding against the entire South Chicago container terminal.”
Dante stood up so fast his leather executive chair crashed against the mahogany bookshelf. “What are you talking about? That credit facility doesn't mature for another sixty days!”
“There was an acceleration clause,” Marco stammered, pulling at his collar. “Triggered by our drop in operating liquidity. The creditor is demanding thirty million dollars in cash by Friday night, or they take legal possession of all shipping licenses.”
Dante felt a cold hand grip his heart. “Who owns that debt note, Marco? Which syndicate bought it?”
“We don't know,” Marco swallowed hard. “The holding company is registered in Vaduz under the name Tria Spolia. The principal owner is flying into Chicago tonight to attend the annual Maritime Foundation Gala at the Palmer House.”
May you like
Dante stared at his brother. Thirty million dollars. If he lost the shipping terminal, the five families of New York would declare him insolvent and strip his territory within twenty-four hours.
“Get my tuxedo ready,” Dante ordered grimly. “I’ll meet this Swiss banker at the gala. Everyone has a price.”
