Chapter 3 - The Cold Bed and the Paper Note
The black sedan tore through the wrought-iron gates of the Moretti estate at eighty miles per hour, tires screeching as Dante took the winding driveway without braking. Gravel sprayed against the stone balustrades as he slammed the vehicle into park outside the main portico.
Dante didn't wait for his driver. He shoved the door open and stormed up the wide stone stairs.
The front doors stood wide open. Inside, four armed guards stood near the grand staircase, heads bowed, looking like schoolboys awaiting execution. Enzo stood by the fireplace, white-faced, his hands trembling against his trouser seams.
Leo walked forward to meet him. "Dante—"
Dante didn't acknowledge him. He shoved past the men and took the stairs three at a time, his heavy overcoat billowing behind him. His mind was a chaotic storm of denial. Isabella wouldn't leave. Isabella couldn't leave. She was his foundation. She was the one constant in a life constructed out of blood, paranoia, and betrayal. She was simply throwing a tantrum. She was at a luxury hotel downtown, waiting for him to send flowers, an apology, a diamond bracelet.
She's trying to punish me, he told himself violently as he reached the landing. She's trying to make a point.
He kicked open the master bedroom door.
The room was immaculate. The curtains were drawn, letting in thin slivers of grey afternoon light. The bed was made with military precision, except for the center of the charcoal duvet.
Dante stopped. His breath caught in his throat.
Slowly, as if moving through deep water, he crossed the room. His boots made no sound on the thick Persian rug.
There, resting side by side, were his emerald-cut wedding band and his custom black pistol. Beside them lay nine shiny brass bullets, lined up like miniature headstones.
Dante stared at the gun. He reached out with a trembling hand, picking it up. He pulled the slide back. The chamber was empty. He dropped the magazine release. Empty.
Nine bullets. Nine months.
A suffocating pressure clamped down on his chest. His eyes shifted to the cream stationery beside the magazine. He picked up the paper, recognizing her graceful, measured handwriting instantly.
He read her words once. Then twice.
"An unloaded gun cannot kill, Dante, and an empty vow cannot sustain a life. Do not look for me. The woman who loved you died the day you chose silence."
"Enzo!" Dante's voice ripped through the quiet house like a shotgun blast.
Footsteps pounded up the stairs. Enzo appeared at the threshold, shaking visibly, his eyes wide with absolute terror. Leo followed closely behind, hand resting instinctively on his holster.
"Boss... I swear, she said she was going upstate on a family matter," Enzo stammered, his voice breaking. "She was calm. She didn't have any guards, just one bag. She said you knew about it. I couldn't put hands on your wife, Dante! I couldn't draw down on Mrs. Moretti!"
Dante dropped the letter onto the nightstand, stepped across the room in three strides, and grabbed Enzo by the throat, slamming him against the mahogany doorframe. The impact cracked the wood.
"You opened the gate," Dante hissed, his eyes bloodshot, veins pulsing at his temples. "You watched my wife walk out of my house at midnight with a suitcase, and you did not call my direct line?"
"Your phone was turned off, boss!" Leo shouted, stepping in between them, daring to put a hand on Dante's forearm. "You know the rule! When you're at the harbor penthouse, we are forbidden from tracking your frequency unless the compound is under armed attack! You gave that order yourself six months ago!"
The words hit Dante like a physical blow.
He slowly lowered his hand, releasing Enzo, who crumpled to the floor, gasping for air.
You gave that order yourself.
Dante looked around the room. He walked to the walk-in closet and yanked the mirrored doors open. The vast space was filled with hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of designer gowns, fur coats, and shoes. But seven specific evening gowns—the ones he had chosen for her—hung alone in the center section. Her practical clothes, her boots, her favorite cashmere sweater, her personal vanity items—gone.
She hadn't fled in a panic. She hadn't run out in an emotional frenzy.
This was an extraction. A calculated, professional withdrawal executed under his very nose.
"Check the bank accounts," Dante ordered, his voice suddenly dropping into a chilling, dangerous monotone. "Track her credit cards. Ping her phone. Call the airport authorities in New York, Boston, and Miami. I want every toll camera from here to Maine scrubbed. Now!"
Leo pulled a black leather notebook from his pocket, his expression grim. "We already did, Dante. The moment we realized she wasn't in her room yesterday morning."
"And?" Dante snapped. "Where is she?"
"Her personal phone was left in the glovebox of her town car in the garage. Her credit cards haven't seen a single charge. Her joint trust fund with you—seventy million dollars—hasn't been touched by a penny. She didn't take her passport from the safe, either."
Dante froze. "What do you mean she didn't take her passport?"
"Her Moretti passport is in the safe downstairs," Leo said quietly. "Along with her birth certificate and your marriage license. Dante... she walked away with nothing. No money. No identity. No trail."
Dante sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, his fingers brushing against the cold platinum band she had discarded. For eleven years, he had believed he possessed her entirely. He had thought that by surrounding her with wealth, armies, and luxury, he had made himself irreplaceable.
May you like
He picked up the wedding ring, closing his fist around it until the sharp metal cut into his palm.
"She thinks she can survive out there alone," Dante whispered, a terrifying mixture of rage and panic boiling behind his eyes. "She thinks she can hide from seventeen hundred men. Tear this city apart, Leo. Check every train station, every bus terminal, every motel within three hundred miles. Bring my wife home."
