Chapter 4 - Whispers in High Society
A month passed, and the winter froze Chicago into an unyielding block of ice.
To the outside world, the Moretti family operated with its usual terrifying efficiency. Adrian oversaw the acquisition of two logistics hubs in Indiana, attended city council hearings, and managed the syndicates with cold, detached ruthlessness. But behind the closed doors of the penthouse, the silence was slowly driving him mad.
Marcus had turned up nothing. Evelyn had vanished as if she had stepped off the edge of the earth. Her credit cards hadn't been swiped; her social security number hadn't pinged in any hospital database or airline manifest. It was as if Evelyn Moretti had ceased to exist the moment she stepped past the iron gates on Lake Shore Drive.
The rumors started in the second week of December.
At the Chicago Yacht Club’s annual winter dinner, Adrian sat alone at his private table, a glass of scotch untouched in his hand. Across the room, women in furs and men in tuxedos were whispering behind linen napkins.
"Have you seen Evelyn?" a woman’s voice carried over the sound of the string quartet. It was Clara Hastings, the wife of a federal judge. "They say Adrian threw her out because she let herself go. Can you imagine? After she spent three years organizing his mother's charity gala."
"I heard she had a breakdown," another voice chimed in, venomous and eager. "Vincent Moretti told my husband she became completely unstable. Gaining all that weight, refusing to leave the house. Men like Adrian don't tolerate flaws."
Adrian’s grip tightened on his glass until the crystal cracked, sending a sharp spiderweb of fractures down the side. A drop of dark amber liquor spilled over his thumb. He set the glass down with measured care, rose from his chair, and walked out into the foyer, his security detail trailing two steps behind him.
He hated the whispers. He hated the pitying looks from his rivals. But more than anything, he hated the house.
Every corner of the estate was haunted by her ghost. In the library, her favorite cashmere throw was still draped over the reading chair. In the kitchen, the small spice rack she had organized by hand remained untouched because the cook refused to move anything. In the bathroom, the faint scent of her jasmine lotion still lingered in the steam after Adrian showered.
He found himself sitting in the dark of their bedroom at three in the morning, staring at the empty side of the bed.
“When did you stop believing me?”
Her voice wouldn't leave his head. It played on an endless, torturous loop, louder than the roar of the wind off the lake. He remembered November of the previous year. She had come to his home office, resting her head against his shoulder while he was reviewing shipping manifests. Adrian, I’m so cold. My hands hurt. I can’t seem to stay awake past noon.
And what had he said?
You stay inside too much, Evelyn. You need to hire that trainer. Get some discipline.
He remembered January. She had been crying in the bathroom, holding a hairbrush filled with strands of her rich brown hair. Adrian, look at this. This isn’t normal.
Stress, he had replied without looking away from his tablet. You’re worrying yourself sick over nothing. Stop being so fragile.
He remembered March. She had stepped on the scale in front of him, her cheeks flushed with shame, tears streaming down her face. I’ve gained fifteen pounds. I’m eating five hundred calories a day, Adrian. I swear to you, I’m not cheating.
And he had scoffed. He had walked out of the room, leaving her alone on the cold bathroom tile, muttering that physics didn't lie and that she was making excuses for letting herself slide.
Adrian covered his face with his scarred hands, a dry, ragged gasp escaping his throat.
The door to the bedroom opened softly. Vincent stepped in, wearing an expensive velvet smoking jacket, a cigar unlit between his teeth.
"You're brooding like a wounded dog, Adrian," his father said, leaning against the doorframe with an air of utter disdain. "The board noticed you were distracted today. A boss who is distracted by a runaway woman invites knives in the dark."
Adrian lifted his head. In the dim moonlight, his gray eyes were bloodshot, hollowed out by four weeks of sleeplessness. "She didn't run away because she was dramatic, Father. She ran away because I broke her."
Vincent sneered. "She broke herself. She was weak material. Be glad she's gone before she embarrassed you further in front of the commission. We’ll file for an uncontested divorce on grounds of abandonment in the spring. There are a dozen daughters of good families who would jump at the chance to wear that ring."
Adrian stood up slowly. He was taller than his father now, broader across the shoulders, and the lethal stillness that had made him feared across the Midwest suddenly shifted, targeting the old man standing in the doorway.
"If you ever speak of replacing my wife again," Adrian whispered, the threat so heavy and real that the air in the room seemed to freeze, "I will strip your name from every holding company in this city and put you in a home in Florida before breakfast. Do you understand me?"
Vincent’s eyes widened in genuine shock. For the first time in his life, the patriarch saw that the monster he had created had turned its teeth toward him. Vincent swallowed, his mouth pulling into a tight, bitter line, and stepped back into the hallway without another word.
May you like
Adrian didn't go back to bed. He went to his desk, opened his private laptop, and bypassed his usual security team. He hired a private forensic intelligence firm out of New York—men who didn't report to the Moretti family, men who didn't care about the Chicago underworld, men who had access to federal wiretaps and classified medical billing systems.
"Find her," Adrian told the director on the encrypted line. "I don't care if it costs ten million dollars. Find where Frank took her."
