Chapter 2 - The Rival Mafia Boss Brought Me a Secret About My Husband’s Mistress—But the Name Inside His Envelope Changed EverythingThe most dangerous man in Chicago was standing outside my door holding an envelope with my maiden name on it.
And for the first time since my husband announced he had impregnated another woman, I felt something considerably less pleasant than amusement.
Fear.
Not because Adrian Moretti frightened me.
Although he probably should have.
But because my maiden name had no business appearing on a document in his possession.
I pressed the intercom again.
"Where did you get that envelope?"
"From someone who wanted it destroyed."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I'm giving through a speaker."
I stared at the security monitor.
Adrian didn't move.
He simply waited.
Men like him were accustomed to having doors opened.
Unfortunately for him, I had just spent three years married to another man who believed the same thing.
"Leave it with the concierge," I said.
"Claire."
Something about the way he said my name stopped me.
Not Mrs. Blackwood.
Not sweetheart.
Claire.
Like he knew exactly who I was.
"Your mother worked at St. Catherine's Medical Center seventeen years ago," he said.
My fingers tightened around the intercom.
"She was a nurse."
"Yes."
"She's retired."
"I know."
"Then why are you talking about her?"
Adrian looked directly into the camera.
"Because someone has been using her name to hide forty-six million dollars."
I opened the door.
Not immediately.
First, I called downstairs and asked the concierge to confirm that Adrian had arrived alone.
Then I checked the security camera in the hallway.
Only after that did I unlock the door.
Adrian stood there with his hands visible.
Up close, he was even more intimidating.
Six feet three, broad shoulders, dark hair touched with silver near the temples, and eyes the color of storm clouds over Lake Michigan.
He looked around my condominium.
His gaze settled on the Italian leather sofa.
"Interesting furniture."
"Divorce settlement."
"Your husband has terrible judgment."
"Former husband, eventually. And yes."
One corner of his mouth moved.
Almost a smile.
I stepped aside.
"Five minutes."
He entered.
No bodyguards.
No weapons displayed.
No unnecessary performance.
That made him more dangerous than the men who advertised their power.
Adrian placed the envelope on my coffee table.
"Before you open that, I need you to understand something."
"You're using up your five minutes."
"Vanessa Monroe isn't simply your husband's former girlfriend."
"I gathered that when she moved into my house."
"She's been working with a man named Victor Salazar."
The name meant nothing to me.
"Who?"
"A financial operator. He moves money through shell companies, construction contracts, and offshore accounts."
"Sounds like half the men at Ethan's birthday parties."
"This one has been stealing from me."
I leaned back.
"Then call the police."
Adrian gave me a long look.
"That's precisely what I intend to do."
That surprised me.
Men like Ethan didn't call the police.
They called people who made problems disappear.
Adrian noticed my expression.
"Not every dispute requires a funeral, Claire."
"Tell that to my husband."
"I have. Repeatedly."
I opened the envelope.
Inside were photographs, bank records, and a photocopy of an old hospital document.
The first photograph showed Vanessa leaving a hotel with a man in a navy coat.
The second showed the same man holding her hand.
The third showed them kissing outside a restaurant.
The date was printed at the bottom.
June 18.
I calculated quickly.
Vanessa had told Ethan she was seventeen weeks pregnant.
The photograph had been taken around the time she would have conceived.
"That's Salazar?"
"Yes."
I studied the man's face.
Forty-something.
Expensive haircut.
Confident smile.
The kind of man who would cheat at poker and then accuse the dealer.
"Congratulations," I said. "You've established that Vanessa has terrible taste in men."
Adrian didn't smile.
"Look at the next page."
It was a financial statement.
Several transfers appeared under a company called Bennett Medical Holdings.
I frowned.
"That's not my company."
"I know."
"Then why is my name on it?"
"Because the company was registered using information connected to your mother's former employer."
I looked closer.
The registration documents included an address I recognized.
Our old apartment building.
My childhood home.
My stomach tightened.
"How did they get that address?"
"That's what I want to know."
I turned another page.
A copy of a hospital purchasing authorization appeared.
At the bottom was a signature.
Margaret Bennett.
My mother.
I knew her handwriting.
The signature looked convincing.
But it was wrong.
My mother always crossed the second t in Bennett with one long line.
This signature used two separate strokes.
"That's forged," I said.
Adrian leaned forward.
"You're certain?"
"Absolutely."
He studied me.
"Good."
"Good?"
"Because your mother may be the person who can prove it."
I stood.
"No."
"Claire—"
"No. Whatever game you're playing with Ethan, Vanessa, or this Salazar person, leave my mother out of it."
Adrian remained seated.
"Your mother is already involved."
"She worked hard her entire life. She has nothing to do with criminals."
"I believe you."
"Then why bring this to me?"
"Because someone has been using her identity to authorize payments for medical equipment that was never delivered."
The room went quiet.
I looked down at the documents.
Forty-six million dollars.
Fake purchasing orders.
Hospital invoices.
A company with my name attached.
And my mother's forged signature.
Suddenly, my divorce settlement didn't feel like the most important financial transaction in my life.
"How long has this been happening?"
"At least six years."
"Six?"
"Possibly longer."
I stared at him.
Six years.
Before I married Ethan.
Before I met him.
Before I knew the Blackwood family existed.
"Why now?" I asked.
"Because Salazar has started moving the money again."
"Where?"
Adrian hesitated.
Then he said something that made the room feel colder.
"Through companies connected to Ethan Blackwood."
I sat down.
For several seconds, I couldn't speak.
Then I laughed once.
Not because anything was funny.
Because my life had apparently become a competition to see how many disasters could fit inside a single week.
"My husband cheats on me, pays me forty million dollars, and now you're telling me someone is laundering money through my mother's identity?"
"Yes."
"And his pregnant mistress is involved?"
"That's what the evidence suggests."
I stared at the ceiling.
"Fantastic."
Adrian finally smiled.
It changed his face.
Not enough to make him harmless.
But enough to make him look human.
"You're taking this remarkably well."
"I haven't started throwing furniture yet."
"That sofa looks expensive."
"It is. I'm keeping it."
He nodded solemnly.
"Then perhaps we should focus."
I picked up the photograph of Vanessa and Salazar.
"Does Ethan know?"
"I doubt it."
"Then tell him."
"I intend to."
"Why come to me first?"
Adrian's expression grew serious.
"Because the moment Ethan discovers Vanessa may have lied about the pregnancy, he'll start asking questions. If he follows the money, Salazar will know the investigation is closing in."
"And?"
"And people who steal forty-six million dollars don't usually surrender politely."
I thought of my mother.
Seventy years old.
Living in a modest house outside the city.
Still insisting on buying generic cereal even though I could afford to fill her pantry with imported champagne.
"Is she in danger?"
"I don't know."
That was the first answer Adrian had given me that I fully trusted.
He didn't pretend.
He didn't promise.
He simply told me the truth.
I took out my phone.
"Then I'm calling her."
My mother answered after four rings.
"Claire, sweetheart."
"Mom. Are you home?"
"Of course. Why?"
"Has anyone contacted you recently about your old hospital job?"
A pause.
"Actually, yes."
My heart sank.
"Who?"
"A woman called last Tuesday. She said she was reviewing old pension records."
"What did she ask?"
"Where I worked, my employee number, whether I still had any hospital documents."
"Did you give her anything?"
"No. I told her to contact the hospital."
I closed my eyes.
"Good."
"Claire, what's wrong?"
I looked at Adrian.
He was watching me carefully.
"Nothing I can't handle. I'm sending someone to pick you up. I want you to stay with me for a few days."
"Why?"
"Because I miss you."
My mother laughed.
"You saw me Sunday."
"I miss you aggressively."
"That sounds expensive."
"Everything about me is expensive now."
She agreed after I promised to buy her favorite lemon cookies.
When I hung up, Adrian stood.
"I can arrange secure transportation."
"I'll arrange it myself."
"Claire—"
"I don't know you."
He accepted that without argument.
"Fair."
I called Rebecca Shaw.
Within twenty minutes, she had connected me with a licensed private security firm.
No Mafia soldiers.
No men with mysterious tattoos.
Just professionals with credentials, insurance, and a company address.
Adrian watched me organize everything.
"You trust your lawyer."
"She's the only person in Chicago who has successfully charged me money without disappointing me."
"An impressive achievement."
"Don't get comfortable."
He glanced at his watch.
"I should go."
I held up the envelope.
"You're leaving this?"
"Copies. Keep them somewhere safe."
"Why?"
"Because if something happens to me, I want someone else asking questions."
I looked at him sharply.
"Are you expecting something to happen?"
"No."
"Then why say that?"
"Because I've learned not to confuse confidence with immortality."
He moved toward the door.
"One more thing, Claire."
"What?"
"Don't tell Ethan about these records yet."
I folded my arms.
"You don't get to give me orders."
"I'm giving you advice."
"Then charge less for it."
His smile returned.
"Good night."
He left.
And I stood alone in my beautiful condominium, holding documents that connected my mother, my husband's mistress, and millions of stolen dollars.
I should have been terrified.
Instead, I was angry.
I had spent my entire life trying to escape the consequences of poverty.
Now someone had apparently decided that my mother's old address and signature were convenient tools for committing financial crimes.
That was unforgivable.
The following morning, Ethan called.
I considered ignoring him.
Then curiosity won.
"Hello, darling."
"Claire."
He sounded terrible.
Wonderful.
"Did you receive the medical report?" I asked.
Silence.
Then a sharp breath.
"Where are you?"
"At home."
"Which home?"
"The one you paid for."
"Stop playing games."
"That's rich coming from you."
He lowered his voice.
"I need to speak with you."
"About your miraculous baby?"
"Claire."
"Did Vanessa enjoy the report?"
Another silence.
Then he said, "She claims the laboratory made a mistake."
I looked out over Lake Michigan.
"Three times?"
"She says the results could be wrong."
"Then consult the specialist. There may be more tests to do."
"I already called him."
"And?"
Ethan didn't answer immediately.
Then, quietly, "He said natural conception would be extremely unlikely."
I almost felt sorry for him.
Almost.
"Well," I said, "that does complicate your wedding plans."
"Vanessa says she's willing to do a paternity test after the baby is born."
"How generous."
"Claire, I need to know if you knew."
"Knew what?"
"That she might be lying."
I stared at the phone.
He had cheated on me.
Blamed me for our infertility.
Moved his mistress into our home.
Demanded a divorce.
And now he wanted to know whether I had failed to protect him from embarrassment.
"Ethan," I said calmly, "I received those results the same day you announced your affair."
He went silent.
"I was coming home to tell you privately. Instead, you told me you wanted another wife."
"Claire—"
"You made your decision."
"I didn't know."
"No. You didn't ask."
He exhaled.
"Can we meet?"
"Why?"
"Because there are things I need to explain."
I looked at the envelope on my table.
There were things I needed explained too.
But not by him.
"Speak to my attorney."
I ended the call.
Ten minutes later, Vanessa called.
I answered.
"Good morning, future Mrs. Blackwood."
"You think you're clever?"
Her voice was sharp enough to cut glass.
"I have my moments."
"You planted those results."
I blinked.
"Excuse me?"
"You arranged fake medical records to ruin my relationship."
I laughed.
"Vanessa, if I could forge medical records that convincingly, I would have chosen a much more profitable career."
"Ethan loves me."
"Then you have nothing to worry about."
"You're jealous."
"Of what?"
"Of my baby."
I looked at the photograph Adrian had given me.
Vanessa kissing Victor Salazar.
"Actually," I said, "I'm curious about something."
"What?"
"Does the name Victor Salazar mean anything to you?"
The silence was immediate.
Complete.
For the first time since meeting Vanessa, I had managed to stop her talking.
"Who told you that name?" she whispered.
Interesting.
"Why?"
"Claire."
Her voice changed.
The arrogance disappeared.
Something else took its place.
Fear.
"Who told you about Victor?"
I leaned back.
"Have a lovely morning."
I hung up.
Then I called Adrian.
He answered immediately.
"Claire."
"Vanessa knows you're investigating."
A pause.
"How?"
"I mentioned Salazar."
"Why would you do that?"
"Because I enjoy making unpleasant people uncomfortable."
"Claire."
His tone had changed.
Not angry.
Urgent.
"What exactly did she say?"
"She asked who told me his name."
"Did you answer?"
"No."
"Good."
"Adrian, what's going on?"
He didn't respond immediately.
Then I heard a door close on his end.
"Where's your mother?"
"On her way here."
"With security?"
"Yes."
"Call them. Tell them not to take the usual route."
My stomach tightened.
"Why?"
"Because Salazar has a history of using intimidation when his financial arrangements are threatened."
I stood.
"Are you saying he might hurt my mother?"
"I'm saying we should take precautions."
I called the security team.
They confirmed that my mother was safe and changed their route to the condominium.
Then I called her.
She sounded annoyed.
"Claire, these nice men won't let me stop for coffee."
"Mom, please just come straight here."
"Did you tell them I'm seventy, not seven?"
"I'll buy you coffee."
"You'd better."
I laughed weakly.
When she arrived forty minutes later, I hugged her so tightly that she complained about her ribs.
"Good heavens, Claire."
I pulled back.
"Sorry."
She studied my face.
"What's happened?"
I wanted to lie.
I wanted to tell her everything was fine.
Instead, I led her into the living room.
And showed her the forged documents.
She examined them slowly.
Her expression changed.
"Where did you get these?"
"Someone investigating financial fraud."
She touched the signature.
"That's not mine."
"I know."
She turned the page.
Then froze.
"What is it?" I asked.
My mother stared at a hospital invoice.
Her face had gone pale.
"Claire."
"Mom?"
She pointed at a name printed near the bottom.
Dr. Leonard Voss.
"I remember him."
"Who is he?"
"He was the hospital's financial director."
"Did you work with him?"
"Sometimes."
She looked at me.
And for the first time in my life, I saw genuine fear in my mother's eyes.
"Seventeen years ago," she whispered, "I reported him for stealing medical supplies."
I felt my stomach drop.
"What happened?"
"He was investigated. Then the hospital said there wasn't enough evidence."
"And?"
My mother swallowed.
"Two weeks later, your father died."
The room went silent.
My father had died in a car accident when I was fourteen.
A drunk driver, the police said.
The other driver had never been identified.
I stared at my mother.
"What are you saying?"
She shook her head.
"I don't know."
But her hands were trembling.
I reached for her.
"Mom."
She looked at the forged documents again.
"After your father died, someone called me."
"Who?"
"I never learned his name."
"What did he say?"
Her eyes filled with tears.
"He told me that if I kept asking questions about the hospital accounts, you would be next."
For seventeen years, my mother had carried that secret alone.
And now the same financial operation appeared to be connected to my husband's pregnant mistress.
I felt something inside me change.
The forty million dollars.
The divorce.
The humiliation.
Suddenly, none of it mattered as much as the question burning in my mind.
Had my father's death really been an accident?
My phone rang.
Adrian.
I answered.
"Tell me you've found something."
His voice was grim.
"I have."
"What?"
"Victor Salazar isn't working alone."
I looked at my mother.
"Who is he working with?"
Adrian hesitated.
Then said, "Leonard Voss."
My mother covered her mouth.
And Adrian continued.
"Claire, there's something else. We found an old payment connected to your father's accident."
My knees nearly gave way.
"Who authorized it?"
Another pause.
Then Adrian said the name I least expected.
"Richard Blackwood."
Ethan's father.
The man who had built the Blackwood empire.
The man who had died six years before I married his son.
The man whose portrait still hung above the fireplace in the mansion I had just left.
May you like
And suddenly I understood something horrifying.
My marriage to Ethan Blackwood might not have been an accident at all.
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