Chapter 3 - The Gathering Storm
The next forty-eight hours passed in a chaotic, agonizing blur.
My mother survived the initial cardiac arrest, but her brain activity remained dangerously low. The doctors placed her in a medically induced coma, leaving us in a agonizing state of limbo.
I refused to leave the hospital. I slept on the small vinyl sofa in the corner of the room, turning down every offer from my father to go back to the Bennett estate. I knew that going to the Bennett estate meant encountering Sophia, and right now, I needed every ounce of my mental strength focused on my mother.
On the third morning, while I was washing my face in the small private bathroom off the VIP suite, my phone rang again. It was an encrypted video call from London.
I quickly tapped the screen, and my daughter’s glowing, chubby face filled the display.
"Mommy!" Mia squealed, her bouncing dark curls framing her round face. "Nanny Sarah said I can eat a chocolate biscuit because I cleaned my playroom!"
Looking at her face was like staring into a mirror of Vincent's childhood portraits. She had his distinct dark eyes, his arching eyebrows, and when she smiled, that exact same tiny dimple appeared on her left cheek. It was a miracle Vincent hadn't realized the truth from the lock-screen photograph, but his blind jealousy regarding another man had clouded his logical deduction.
"Just one biscuit, sweet girl," I said, smiling through the exhaustion that weighed heavy on my bones. "How are you doing? Do you miss Mommy?"
"I miss you super much!" Mia pouted, pressing her face close to the camera lens. "When are you coming home? Or can I come to Chicago? Nanny Sarah showed me pictures of the big lake!"
My heart tightened. "Soon, baby. Mommy just needs to make sure Grandma is okay, and then I'll be right back on the airplane."
"Okay! Look at my new shoes!" Mia tilted the phone down to show off her pink light-up sneakers.
As I was laughing at her enthusiasm, I heard a quiet sound behind me.
I turned my head quickly. Standing in the doorway of the bathroom, holding a fresh cup of coffee, was Vincent.
He had walked into the VIP suite unannounced, using his master keycard access to the hospital's private wing. He was staring directly at the phone screen in my hand. From his angle, he could clearly see the live video feed of Mia.
My blood ran cold. I instantly tilted the screen away, but it was too late. He had already seen her.
"I'm going to call you back later, sweetie. I love you," I said rapidly, hanging up the call before Mia could reply.
Vincent slowly set the coffee cup down on the granite sink counter. His face was unreadable, a terrifyingly calm mask that was far more dangerous than his previous rage.
"She has dark hair," he said softly, his voice dropping into a chillingly quiet register. "She has dark eyes."
"Vincent, leave," I said, stepping past him into the main bedroom area.
He followed me, his long strides effortlessly closing the distance between us. "I looked at the lock-screen photo again last night, Claire. I had my security team enlarge it."
My breath hitched in my throat. I stopped walking, keeping my back turned to him.
"She doesn't look like an English child," Vincent continued, his voice stepping closer, right behind my ear. "She has the Moretti jawline. She has the exact same dimple my mother had... the same dimple I have."
He reached out, his hand gripping my shoulder and turning me around to face him. His dark eyes were burning with a terrifying mix of realization, shock, and mounting fury.
"How old is she, Claire?" he demanded, his voice trembling.
I looked him dead in the eye, hardening my heart into pure ice. "She's four."
Vincent’s breath caught in his chest. He did the math instantly in his head. Four years old meant she was conceived before I left Chicago. It meant she was conceived during the final, passionate month we spent together before I discovered the photograph in his desk.
"She's... she's mine?" he whispered, his voice cracking completely. The legendary, feared mob boss of Chicago looked as if he had just been dealt a fatal blow. "You... you were pregnant when you left me?"
"I didn't know I was pregnant when I boarded that plane, Vincent," I lied smoothly, keeping my expression completely stone-cold. "I found out two weeks after I arrived in London."
"And you didn't tell me?" he roared, his hands flying to his head as he began pacing the room like a caged animal. "You hid my own flesh and blood from me for four years? You let me believe I had lost you forever while you were raising my daughter across the ocean?"
"Why would I tell you?" I shouted back, my years of buried anger finally exploding to the surface. "So you could raise her in your blood-soaked world? So she could grow up calling Sophia 'auntie' while you two played happy family with your secret son? So she could be a pawn in your syndicate wars?"
"SHE IS A MORETTI!" Vincent bellowed, slamming his fist against the wooden doorframe, causing the glass to rattle. "She is my daughter! My heir! My blood!"
"She is a Bennett!" I defied him, stepping right up to his chest, refusing to back down an inch. "Her name is Mia Bennett. Her legal birth certificate has no father listed. You have no rights to her, Vincent. You forfeited those rights the day you put another woman and another child above your wife!"
Vincent stopped pacing. He slowly lowered his hands, looking down at me with an expression that terrified me to my very core. The panic in his eyes was gone, replaced by a cold, absolute, possessive dark resolve.
"I am the head of the Moretti family, Claire," he said softly, every word sounding like a signed execution warrant. "There is no court in this country, no law in this world, that can keep my daughter away from me. You brought yourself back to Chicago... and you are never leaving again."
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He pulled his phone from his pocket, speed-dialing his chief of security.
"Frankie," Vincent commanded into the phone, his eyes locked onto mine. "Deploy the private jet to London immediately. Locate my daughter at the Kensington address. Bring her to Chicago. Today."
