Chapter 1 - The Sixth Wreck and the Cold Goodbye
The sickening crunch of twisted metal and shattering safety glass echoed down the dark, rain-slicked concrete of Michigan Avenue like a gunshot. I sat behind the steering wheel of Adrian Moretti’s prized, custom-ordered midnight-black Bentley Continental GT, my head resting heavy against the unyielding airbag, while a warm, sticky stream of bright crimson blood ran from a deep laceration right down my forehead, blurring my vision into a smear of neon city lights.
This was the sixth time in just thirty days that I had managed to wrap his favorite luxury car around a stationary object.
Within minutes, the flashing red and blue lights of Chicago police cruisers illuminated the wet pavement, accompanied by the low, rumbling exhaust of a sleek, black Maybach pulling aggressively up to the crime scene. Before the city officers could even step forward to run my license, the back door of the Maybach opened, and Chicago’s most powerful, untouchable underworld kingpin stepped out into the freezing downpour.
Adrian Moretti.
At thirty-two, Adrian commanded an absolute empire of underground casinos, luxury hotels, private shipping terminals, and a sprawling criminal syndicate worth hundreds of millions of dollars. Corrupt politicians whispered his name with reverence, and ruthless executioners feared him, but I had known him long before the expensive custom suits, long before the armed bodyguards, and long before he became the monster who broke my heart.
We had grown up together in the suffocating grime of the South Side docks. We had survived gnawing poverty, shared stale bread, and kept each other warm through bitter winters when the rest of the world had abandoned us. For years, I foolishly believed that our shared history was an unbreakable armor—that nothing in this world could ever come between us.
Then, three agonizing months ago, Adrian looked me dead in the eye and casually informed me that he had fallen in love with someone else.
Sophia Lane. His personal, impeccably groomed assistant.
I had fought him tooth and nail, rejecting his divorce petitions over and over again out of sheer, blinding agony, until a suffocating wave of rage finally pushed me into making an impossible, humiliating demand.
“Get down on your knees,” I had told him that afternoon in our sprawling penthouse, my voice shaking with tears. “Beg me for your freedom. Give me everything—the riverside mansion, the millions in accounts, the luxury cars. Walk away with absolutely nothing to your name, and I’ll sign the papers.”
Adrian Moretti had never knelt for a single living soul. Not for rival mafia bosses, not for federal prosecutors, not for corrupt mayors.
But he knelt for me that day.
Not because he loved me. Not out of lingering remorse or respect for our sixteen years together.
He knelt because he wanted Sophia.
So, I signed. He left me everything he owned, including his beloved Bentley—the ultimate status symbol of his wealth.
Yet, despite holding all the cards, I still couldn't let go. I was drowning in a sea of abandonment, and like a madwoman, I began crashing his expensive car over and over again, purely because every single wreck forced the police to call his emergency number, guaranteeing that he would have to come running to me.
Now, standing beside the smoking wreckage of the Bentley, Adrian didn't yell or curse. His expression remained a mask of cold, professional detachment as he pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket and gently pressed it against the bleeding gash on my forehead, wiping away the blood with clinical precision.
“You should go to the emergency room, Claire,” he said flatly, his dark eyes devoid of any warmth.
A sharp, hysterical laugh bubbled up in my throat. With a furious shove, I slapped his strong hand aside, staring up at him with unbridled malice.
“Why should I? Wouldn't you and your precious whore be much happier if I just bled out and died right here? Then you could finally play happily ever after with Sophia without feeling a single ounce of lingering guilt!”
His jaw tightened, but his expression barely flickered. “Claire, you’re twenty-eight years old. Stop embarrassing yourself. Stop believing a man will ever love you again just because you’re crying and suffering.”
Without waiting for another word, he turned his back on me and began walking back toward his waiting Maybach.
A cold wave of absolute panic clawed its way up my throat, swallowing my remaining pride whole. I scrambled out of the ruined Bentley, ran across the wet asphalt, and threw both of my arms tightly around his waist, burying my face in the expensive wool of his coat.
“Adrian, please,” I sobbed, my voice breaking completely. “Can we just try again? I promise I’ll stop fighting you. I’ll be gentler, I’ll be quieter, I’ll change everything. I’ll become whatever kind of wife you want me to be... just don't leave me.”
I hated myself in that exact moment. I hated how pathetic, how desperate, how utterly broken I sounded, begging a man who looked at me like a discarded piece of trash.
Then, cutting through the wail of the police sirens, a soft, nervous feminine voice called out from the Maybach.
“Adrian?”
Sophia Lane stepped out from the passenger side of the black SUV, wearing a tailored cashmere coat, looking entirely unbothered by the rain.
Adrian immediately reached down, forcibly peeling my clinging arms away from his waist with cold, efficient strength. He didn't look back at me as he strode rapidly across the pavement toward her.
“Why did you get out of the car, Sophia? I specifically told you to stay inside,” he murmured, his voice softening into a tone I hadn't heard him use in years.
“I was scared watching you with her,” she whispered theatrically, resting her head against his chest.
His entire face transformed, melting into a look of absolute tenderness. He pulled her tightly into his protective embrace, wrapping his arms around her shoulders. “There’s nothing here to be afraid of, sweetheart. Claire and our marriage are ancient history. There is nothing between us anymore.”
I stood frozen in the freezing rain, watching him comfort her, wipe away her imaginary fears, and lavish her with the affection I had starved for over the past three years.
And right there, standing beside the totaled wreckage of his favorite car, something inside my chest finally snapped—and then went completely, permanently still.
The frantic, desperate fighting stopped. The screaming stopped. The desire to chase him vanished into thin air.
That very afternoon, without shedding another tear, I returned to the sprawling riverside mansion, called the domestic staff together, and instructed them to pack their belongings. I handed every single employee a generous severance check from Adrian’s unlimited accounts, thanking them for their service. Then, I walked up to our master bedroom, stripped every single wedding photograph from the walls, and removed my platinum diamond wedding ring, placing it inside a small velvet box on the desk.
Then, I stopped calling Adrian.
One day passed in absolute silence. Then another. Then a full week.
No frantic voicemails. No desperate texts. No staged accidents. No pathetic excuses to cross his path.
Later on, through mutual underworld whispers, I would learn that the moment my phone calls stopped, Adrian Moretti began checking his encrypted smartphone with a growing, restless obsession. He called my number once. Then twice. Then ten times a day.
I didn't answer.
He tried texting. Still nothing.
The most feared mafia boss in Chicago—a man who could summon an army of armed enforcers with a single snap of his fingers—found himself completely powerless, unable to force his former wife to pick up the phone.
For sixteen long years, Adrian had operated under the arrogant assumption that I would always be there, always waiting, always chasing after him no matter how far he strayed.
May you like
And for sixteen years, he had been entirely right.
Until the very day I finally stopped.
