Chapter 10 - THE NIGHT VINCENT LOST HIS CROWN

Z

Vincent survived the meeting.

Three other men did not.

That was the headline nobody printed because the meeting officially never happened.

The truth reached me through Marco.

Vincent had gathered the senior members of the Moretti organization inside an old private club on the West Side.

He announced that all illegal operations under his control were ending.

Effective immediately.

Legitimate businesses would remain.

Transportation.

Construction.

Property management.

Hotels.

Restaurants.

Everything else would be closed, sold, or turned over as part of his cooperation agreement.

Some men accepted it.

Others called it betrayal.

One pulled a gun.

Then everyone remembered why rooms full of dangerous men had once feared Vincent Moretti.

When he came to see me the next morning, his injured shoulder was in a sling and his knuckles were bruised.

“You look terrible.”

“Good morning to you too.”

“You got into a fight while recovering from a gunshot.”

“Technically, the fight came to me.”

“That sounds like something a ten-year-old says to his teacher.”

He sat at Teresa’s kitchen table.

The LIVE, LAUGH, LOVE sign hung above him again.

There was something cosmically satisfying about it.

“You stepped down?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And twenty-six businesses are being restructured.”

“What about everyone employed by them?”

“Legitimate employees keep their jobs.”

“And the others?”

“I offered exit packages.”

I blinked.

“You gave mobsters severance?”

“Some men respond better to transition planning.”

I started laughing.

Vincent stared at me.

Then he smiled.

A real smile.

For a few seconds, everything felt easy.

That frightened me.

Because easy had never lasted between us.

“What happened after you made the announcement?”

His smile faded.

“Rafe sided with Angelo.”

Rafe Moretti.

Vincent’s cousin.

Angelo’s son.

Thirty-four.

Charming.

Educated.

Dangerous in the way men often were when they had spent childhood being told power belonged to them.

“He’s been feeding Angelo information,” Vincent said.

“About us?”

“Yes.”

“How long?”

“Probably months.”

My stomach turned.

Rafe had attended our wedding.

He had toasted me.

He had danced with Isabella.

He had carried Emilia’s casket.

“Does he know where we are?”

“No.”

“Are you certain?”

Vincent didn’t answer quickly enough.

I stood.

“Claire—”

“No. We’re moving.”

“Agreed.”

That surprised me.

“Where?”

Rebecca Sloan arranged federal protection.

Not witness protection.

Not yet.

But a secure apartment under government control.

Vincent initially resisted.

Then Rebecca reminded him that every Moretti safe house had apparently been cataloged by Angelo.

By evening, Madison and I were moved into an apartment near Lakeshore East.

Vincent stayed somewhere else.

That was his choice.

“I won’t bring another target into your building,” he said.

The separation was strange.

For three years, I had wanted Vincent home more often.

Now he was deliberately staying away to protect me.

And I missed him.

I hated that.

Pregnancy made everything worse.

I cried because a grocery store had stopped carrying my favorite crackers.

I cried because Madison ate the last peach yogurt.

I cried because Vincent sent me a photo of a tiny Chicago Bears onesie and wrote:

Too early?

I replied:

Extremely.

Ten minutes later:

I bought it anyway.

I smiled so hard my cheeks hurt.

Then came the medical records.

Rebecca called us into her office.

Emilia Moretti’s medication had been altered.

Not enough to kill her immediately.

Enough to destabilize her heart.

A nurse had documented an irregular dosage.

Anna Kowalski.

The nurse later murdered.

Vincent read the report twice.

Then placed it carefully on the table.

“My uncle killed her.”

Rebecca did not soften it.

“That is our working theory.”

“Because of the trust?”

“Likely.”

Emilia’s death activated succession provisions.

Angelo had expected the voting structure to favor him.

He had not known Emilia had transferred thirteen percent to me.

That explained everything after her death.

The surveillance.

Sophia.

The divorce manipulation.

The attacks.

But there was another surprise.

Rebecca handed me an old photograph.

My father.

Emilia.

And a young Vincent.

He looked about sixteen.

They were standing outside a courthouse.

“I don’t remember this,” Vincent said.

“You were injured after your father died,” Rebecca explained.

“Emilia brought you to meet Thomas Bennett.”

My heartbeat changed.

Vincent stared at the photograph.

Then something returned to him.

“A man gave me coffee.”

Rebecca nodded.

“That was Claire’s father.”

I looked at Vincent.

“What did he say?”

Vincent stared at the picture.

“He told me…”

His voice became quieter.

“He told me that the worst thing someone can do to a boy is convince him he has no choice about the man he becomes.”

My eyes filled.

My father.

Of course.

Vincent looked at me.

“I forgot his name.”

“You were sixteen.”

“I remembered the sentence.”

“That’s more important.”

He turned the photograph over.

Something had been written on the back.

Thomas + Emilia + Vincent.

April 1995.

And beneath it:

If he gets out, maybe the family has a chance.

Vincent stared at those words for a long time.

Then his phone buzzed.

A text from Rafe.

You should have stayed king.

Attached was a photograph.

Madison.

Leaving my secure apartment twenty minutes earlier.

I stopped breathing.

Another text arrived.

Uncle wants the notebook.

Bring Claire instead, and maybe your friend comes home.

May you like

“I brought Camille tonight because I thought you deserved to see what my...

ON MY BIRTHDAY, MY MAFIA BOSS HUSBAND GAVE ANOTHER WOMAN THE DIAMONDS I...

Her Husband Told Her Not to Make a Scene, but When She Slid Off Her Wedd...

My phone slipped from my hand.

Madison was gone.