Chapter 3 - The Underworld Closing In and the Missing Wife
Three weeks had passed since I walked out of the Chicago estate, and my new life in the Indiana coastal town had settled into a rhythm of breathtaking tranquility. I spent my mornings walking along the sandy shore collecting smooth beach glass, my afternoons reading on the porch, and my evenings cooking quiet meals for one without ever having to worry about syndicate phone calls or sudden midnight emergencies.
I had completely severed all ties to my old identity. My bank accounts were scrubbed, my phone number was new, and my former life was dead and buried.
Or so I foolishly believed.
In Chicago, the absence of Claire Bennett had unleashed a chaotic hurricane across the Moretti syndicate. Without my grounding presence, Adrian’s legendary temper had grown sharp, unpredictable, and dangerously volatile. His capos were walking on eggshells, senior business partners were terrified to enter his office, and Sophia Lane—who had expected to step gracefully into the role of queen bee—found herself subjected to a cold, distant roommate rather than a passionate lover.
Adrian spent every waking hour utilizing his vast criminal network, private investigators, and corrupt law enforcement contacts trying to track down my digital ghost. But because I had vanished using my mother’s maiden identity and an offline cash purchase, his multi-million-dollar empire was hitting a brick wall.
It was during this high-tension atmosphere that a dangerous shadow from the underworld decided to exploit Adrian’s obvious distraction.
Dante Vescari—the ruthless, ambitious leader of the rival East Coast syndicate—had spent years looking for a permanent vulnerability to fracture the Moretti monopoly over the Midwest shipping terminals. He knew about Adrian’s messy divorce, but more importantly, through a bribed municipal clerk, Vescari discovered that Adrian’s ex-wife—Claire Bennett—was legally still listed as a secondary beneficiary on several foundational real estate trusts holding the deeds to the primary Chicago port facilities.
If Vescari could capture me, he could force Adrian to sign over half his empire at gunpoint.
On a cold, overcast Tuesday afternoon, I was walking back from the local farmers' market carrying a brown paper bag filled with fresh vegetables, when a sleek, unmarked black SUV pulled up sharply beside the sidewalk, cutting off my path.
Before I could turn around and run, the side doors slid open, and two burly men in dark suits stepped out with terrifying speed.
“Mrs. Moretti,” one of them grunted, grabbing my arms before I could scream. “Don't make a scene. Get in the car.”
“Let go of me! Help!” I dropped the grocery bag, the fresh tomatoes rolling across the pavement as I kicked and fought against their iron grip.
Passersby on the quiet street gasped, but before anyone could pull out a phone to call the local police, a heavy cloth bag was jammed over my head, plunging me into suffocating darkness, and I was violently shoved into the back seat of the accelerating vehicle.
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. Panic, sharp and paralyzing, flooded my veins. I had thought escaping Chicago would keep me safe, but the violent world I had married into had finally caught up with me.
Inside the speeding SUV, one of the kidnappers pressed a burner phone to his ear, dialing an international prefix.
“Boss, we got her,” the man barked into the receiver. “The ex-wife is secured. She didn't put up much of a fight once the bag was on. We’re heading across the state line toward the abandoned railway yards now.”
On the other end of the secure line, sitting in his downtown Chicago penthouse office, Adrian Moretti froze dead in his tracks. The pen he was holding snapped cleanly in half between his fingers.
“What did you just say?” Adrian’s voice dropped into a terrifying, lethal register that made even his most hardened enforcers step back in horror. “Repeat that, you son of a bitch.”
“You heard me, Moretti,” Vescari’s smooth, mocking voice came over the speaker. “If you ever want to see your pretty little ex-wife breathing again, you bring the North Quay deed transfers to the old rail yards by midnight. Come alone, or we ship her back to you in pieces.”
The line went dead.
For three seconds, absolute silence blanketed the executive office. Then, Adrian Moretti swept his entire mahogany desk clear with one violent swipe of his arm, sending laptops, crystal decanters, and glass frames shattering across the floor.
“Matteo!” Adrian roared, his voice echoing through the penthouse like thunder. “Get every loyal soldier we have armed and ready. Tell the tactical units to mobilize our entire motorcade right now.”
Matteo paled visibly. “Boss, if we ride into Vescari’s territory with a full assault squad, it means all-out syndicate war—!”
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Adrian whipped around, his dark eyes blazing with a demonic, unbridled fury that made it clear he was ready to burn the entire city of Chicago to ash if a single hair on my head was harmed.
“Let them fucking war,” Adrian snarled, racking the slide of his custom Sig Sauer pistol. “If Vescari thinks he can touch what belongs to me, I’m going to wipe his entire bloodline off the face of the earth.”
