Chapter 3 - An Empty Penthouse
The morning sun broke over Lake Michigan, casting long, pale shadows across the master bedroom of the Moretti estate. Adrian woke up with a sharp ache behind his temples. The gala had continued until three in the morning, a blur of bourbon, forced handshakes, and subtle congratulations from city aldermen on the family's expanding portfolio.
He rolled over, his arm instinctively reaching across the king-sized bed.
The sheets were cold. Smooth. Untouched.
Adrian sat up quickly, his heart giving an unexpected, uncomfortable thud against his ribs. For seven years, Evelyn had always been there. Even on the mornings after their worst arguments, she would be curled on her side of the mattress, or downstairs in the kitchen brewing dark roast coffee, her quiet presence anchoring the cavernous house.
He got out of bed, pulling on a silk robe, and walked into the dressing room.
Her vanity was cleared of its usual clutter. The silver brush set was gone. Her passport wasn't in the small safe behind the painting. And on the center of the dark mahogany dresser, precisely where she had left it the night before, sat the diamond wedding pendant he had bought her in Paris on their honeymoon.
Beside the pendant lay her platinum wedding band.
Adrian’s breath hitched. A dark, hot wave of irritation surged through him, fighting against the sudden, hollow panic clawing at the bottom of his stomach. "Dramatic," he muttered aloud, his voice sounding thin in the empty room. "She's playing a game. She wants me to chase her."
He grabbed his phone from the nightstand and dialed her number.
“The number you have dialed is no longer in service or has been disconnected.”
He frowned, dialing again. The same automated female voice answered. He cursed under his breath, threw the phone onto the bed, and walked downstairs to the dining room.
His father, Vincent Moretti, was already seated at the head of the twenty-foot table, slicing through a rare steak while reading the financial section of the morning paper. At seventy-one, Vincent still carried the predatory posture of a street boss who had survived three turf wars. His hair was slicked back, gray and sharp as iron needles.
"Sit down, Adrian," Vincent said without looking up from the newsprint. "The port authority commissioner called at dawn. The container shipments cleared without inspection. It was a good night."
Adrian pulled out a chair but didn't sit. "Where is Evelyn?"
Vincent took a slow sip of black coffee. "I assume she’s sulking in some boutique hotel downtown. She made quite an exit last night. Two of the senator's aides saw her carrying a bag out the side gate like a common maid."
"Did she call you?"
Vincent set his cup down with a sharp clatter against the saucer. His cold blue eyes locked onto his son. "Frank called. He took her to the Palmer House, or some clinic, I didn't care to listen. The girl was throwing a tantrum because she couldn't fit into her dress and couldn't handle a little critique. You indulged her for too long, Adrian. A Moretti woman doesn't make a scene. She doesn't embarrass the family."
"She said she was sick, Father," Adrian heard himself say. The words slipped out before his pride could censor them.
Vincent laughed—a dry, grating bark that held no humor. "Sick? She's soft. Her father was an architect with no spine, and the apple didn't fall far from the tree. You gave her everything: credit cards without limits, drivers, diamonds, a seat at the highest tables in this state. And the moment things require a little discipline, she plays the invalid. Let her stew for a week. When her personal cards run dry, she’ll come crawling back through that gate with an apology on her lips."
Adrian stared at his father. For his entire life, Vincent’s word had been gospel. Vincent had taught him how to shoot, how to negotiate with politicians, how to break a business rival without leaving a trace of blood. But as Adrian looked at the empty seat across the table—the seat where Evelyn had sat every morning, quietly putting up with Vincent’s thinly veiled insults—a strange, sickening sensation settled in his gut.
"I blocked her personal accounts six months ago," Adrian said quietly.
Vincent looked up, raising an eyebrow in mild surprise. "Did you?"
"You told me to," Adrian recalled, the memory suddenly tasting like ash in his mouth. "You said if she was gaining weight, she was spending money on luxury foods and lazy habits. You told me to put her on an allowance to force her to manage herself."
Vincent shrugged, picking up his fork again. "Good. Then she won't last three days. She has no family left. Her friends are all people who owe their livelihoods to our foundation. Where is she going to go?"
Adrian didn't answer. He turned on his heel and walked out of the dining room, heading straight for the garage.
The town car Frank usually drove was missing from its bay. Adrian walked over to the security office near the main gate. The guard on duty snapped to attention as the young boss entered.
"Where is Frank?" Adrian demanded.
"He didn't report for his shift this morning, sir," the guard said nervously, glancing at the logbook. "He dropped the keys in the overnight lockbox at the front gate around four a.m. Left a handwritten note saying he was resigning, effective immediately. Said his pension was already vested."
Adrian felt the floor beneath him become unsteady. Frank had been with the family for twenty-eight years. He had taken two bullets for Vincent in the nineties. A man like that didn't abandon a six-figure salary and a life of prestige overnight over a domestic dispute.
Unless he had seen something that made him sick to his stomach.
Adrian pulled out his phone again, dialing his head of personal security, Marcus. "Marcus. Get your team on the grid. I want every hotel in Cook County checked. Check the train stations, O'Hare, Midway. Find my wife."
"Right away, Mr. Moretti," Marcus answered. "What should we do when we locate her?"
May you like
Adrian paused, his eyes tracking the cold drizzle sliding down the bulletproof glass of the garage. “If this is what you’re going to become, then no.” His own voice echoed in his ears, cruel and hollow.
"Don't touch her," Adrian ordered, his voice raw. "Just tell me where she is."
