Chapter 4 - The Pressure Mounts
Back in his penthouse atop the Moretti Tower in downtown Chicago, Vincent Moretti was unraveling.
The floor-to-ceiling windows showed the gray skyline of the city he supposedly ruled, but inside the sprawling office, the atmosphere was suffocating. Ashtrays were overflowing. Half-empty glasses of scotch sat abandoned on the marble credenza.
Marcus stood by the heavy oak doors, his face pale, flanked by two senior capos who looked like they would rather be anywhere else on earth.
"What do you mean, you can't find her?" Vincent's voice was dangerously low, a soft hiss that preceded violence.
"Boss... she didn't use an Uber, she didn't call a cab, and her personal credit cards haven't been swiped once," Marcus reported, swallowing hard. "Her car is still in the hospital parking garage. The private ambulance that transported her was an unmarked county medical transfer. The driver had federal paperwork authorizing the transport under seal. We can't trace the license plate without tripping alarms at the Department of Transportation."
"Then find the lawyer!" Vincent shouted, throwing his crystal tumbler against the wall. The glass shattered into a hundred glittering shards, dark amber liquor running down the raw silk wallpaper. "Find Arthur Vance! Vance has an office in the Loop! Put twenty men outside his building!"
"We can't, Vincent," spoke an older, gravelly voice from the doorway.
Salvatore Moretti, Vincent’s uncle and the family’s senior consiglieri, walked into the room, leaning on a polished black cane. His silver hair was neatly combed, his dark eyes heavy with the wisdom of forty years of underworld survival.
"Uncle," Vincent said, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "Claire took my child. She filed a restraining order against me."
"I know," Salvatore said calmly, taking a seat in a leather armchair. "The whole city knows. The phones have been ringing since dawn. The police commissioner called me personally. The Chief of Detectives called. Do you know what they told me, Vincent?"
Vincent remained silent, his jaw clenching.
"They told me to tell my hothead nephew that if a single one of our soldiers steps near Northwestern Memorial or approaches the Vance family, the federal task force will drop twenty racketeering indictments on our desk before lunchtime."
"She’s my wife, Sal!" Vincent roared, pacing like a caged beast. "That baby is a Moretti! She has no right to keep my blood from me!"
"You gave up your rights the moment you paraded that little girl Sophia through your grandfather's birthday party while your pregnant wife was bleeding out in a surgical ward," Salvatore spat, his voice suddenly cutting like a whip.
Vincent stopped dead in his tracks.
"Don't look at me like that," the old man continued ruthlessly. "Your father was a ruthless man, Vincent. But he never, ever humiliated his family in public. He never abandoned his wife for the daughter of a dead soldier. Sophia Reynolds is poison. Everyone in this organization sees it except you."
"Sophia has nothing to do with this!"
"Sophia has everything to do with this!" Salvatore slammed his cane against the floor. "She’s a leech who plays the helpless orphan to stroke your massive ego! And while you were playing white knight, comforting a fake sprained ankle, your wife—a woman with three times your intellect—was laying the legal groundwork to execute you in court!"
Before Vincent could reply, the heavy doors opened again. Sophia Reynolds walked in, wearing a cashmere sweater dress, limping slightly, her eyes wide with manufactured innocence.
"Vincent?" she murmured, her voice soft and trembling. "I saw the news alerts on my phone... they’re saying Claire filed for divorce? Is it true? Is she really doing this to you after everything you’ve given her?"
Salvatore let out a cold, mocking laugh, shook his head, and stood up. "Look at this circus. You're a brilliant boss on the streets, Vincent. But in this room, you are an utter fool." The old man walked out, leaving the door open behind him.
Sophia moved closer to Vincent, resting her small, delicate hand on his arm. "Vincent... don't let her hurt you. She’s just trying to control you. If she really loved you, she wouldn't keep your daughter from you. She’s being selfish."
For the first time in six months, Vincent didn't look at Sophia with protective warmth.
He looked down at her hand on his arm. He looked at her flawless makeup, her perfect hair, the delicate silver ankle bracelet he had bought her resting above an ankle that showed absolutely no swelling, no bruising, no trauma whatsoever.
He remembered the blood on Dr. Evans’ scrubs.
He remembered the words on that hospital paper: You chose to be by her side while our daughter fought to breathe her first breath.
A sickening, sour realization began to rise in his throat.
Slowly, coldly, Vincent pulled his arm away from Sophia’s touch.
"Go home, Sophia," he said, his voice flat and dead.
Sophia blinked, her porcelain expression faltering. "What? Vincent, I came here to support you—"
"I said, go home," Vincent repeated, turning his back to her and staring out the window. "Take your car. Go to the brownstone. And do not call me until I call you."
"Vincent—"
"Marcus!" Vincent barked. "Escort Miss Reynolds out of my building."
As the door clicked shut behind her protestations, Vincent pulled his phone from his pocket. For the twentieth time that morning, he opened the text thread with Claire.
Something is wrong with the baby. I'm going to Northwestern Memorial. Emergency C-section. Please.
Timestamp: 9:42 PM.
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At 9:42 PM, he had been sipping champagne, laughing at an alderman’s joke, listening to Sophia whisper in his ear.
He closed his eyes, pressing his forehead against the cold glass of the window, and for the very first time in his life, Vincent Moretti felt the icy grip of genuine regret.
