Chapter 4 - The Gatecrasher
Down at the front security gate of the Moretti estate, the winter wind was howling, carrying sheets of freezing sleet that coated the wrought-iron spikes in shimmering ice.
Boyd Carter slammed his heavy fist against the intercom speaker box for the third time, his face purple with alcohol and rage.
“Open this damn gate!” Boyd roared into the night, his breath pluming in white clouds of alcoholic vapor. “I know my wife is in there! I know that ungrateful little bitch of a stepdaughter is hiding on your property! You rich bastards think you can hide people from me? I’ll sue this whole damn estate into the ground!”
Inside the heated security pavilion flanking the gates, two massive men in tactical black sweaters watched him on a bank of high-definition monitors with the detached amusement of apex predators observing a stray dog barking at a tank.
“Should we drop him in the retention pond, boss?” one of the guards spoke quietly into his comms unit, relaying the feed directly to Rhett Moretti’s study.
In the study, Moretti listened to the tinny sound of Boyd’s drunken screaming echoing through the intercom speaker on his desk. He didn't look angry. He looked profoundly bored, the way a lion might look at a mosquito buzzing near its ear.
Lena stood frozen near the fireplace, her hands trembling. “He found me. How did he find me?”
“Your mother’s personnel file lists her home address and emergency contact,” Moretti said quietly, standing up from his desk. He adjusted the cuffs of his shirt with deliberate slowness. “When you didn't come home by noon, and Clara was too delirious to answer his demands, he put two and two together. Predictable, clumsy, and entirely devoid of imagination.”
“Mr. Moretti, please,” Lena pleaded, stepping forward. “Don't let him cause a scene here. I’ll go out there. I’ll talk to him. I’ll make him leave.”
Moretti stopped her with a single, firm gesture of his hand. He walked past her toward the heavy double doors of the study.
“You are not going anywhere near that animal,” Moretti said, his voice dropping into a tone of absolute, chilling authority. “This is my home, Miss Carter. And on my property, nobody threatens my guests.”
“What are you going to do?” Lena asked, her heart hammering against her ribs.
“I’m going to introduce him to Chicago real estate law,” Moretti replied with a cold smile.
Outside at the gates, Boyd was winding up to kick the iron bars with his steel-toed boots when the heavy security gate smoothly glided open on its motorized tracks.
Boyd staggered backward, blinking in surprise against the blinding glare of the security floodlights.
From the shadows of the paved driveway, a single figure emerged into the sleet. Rhett Moretti walked slowly toward the gate, his hands casually shoved into the pockets of his tailored charcoal overcoat. He didn't wear a hat or an umbrella, letting the freezing Chicago sleet melt against his dark hair.
Boyd puffed out his chest, trying to mask his sudden, instinctive surge of intimidation with drunken bravado. “Are you Moretti? Good. You’ve got my stepdaughter working up in your house behind my back! Send Lena out here right now, or I swear to God I’ll call the cops and tell them you’re running a human trafficking ring!”
Moretti stopped five feet away from Boyd. He looked the contractor up and down—at the mud-stained jeans, the reeking whiskey breath, and the trembling, violent hands.
“You must be Boyd Carter,” Moretti said, his voice carrying effortlessly over the wind.
“Damn right I am! And I want—oof!”
Boyd’s sentence was cut short as Moretti’s right hand shot out with blinding, terrifying speed, grabbing Boyd by the lapels of his greasy denim jacket and slamming him against the cold steel bars of the security gate with a deafening CLANG.
The two tactical guards rushed out of the pavilion instantly, but Moretti raised a single finger, signaling them to halt.
“Listen to me very carefully, Mr. Carter,” Moretti murmured, his voice so quiet and chilling that Boyd stopped struggling entirely, his eyes wide with stark terror. “You have three seconds to turn around, get back into your pathetic truck, and drive away from this estate.”
“You can’t touch me!” Boyd wheezed, gasping for air against the iron bars. “I’ve got rights! I’ll file charges!”
“You have no rights within five miles of my properties,” Moretti whispered, his dark eyes boring straight into Boyd’s soul. “Tomorrow morning at nine o'clock, you will report to the Moretti Logistics headquarters downtown to sign a commercial subcontracting agreement. If you sign it, you get your payday. If you don't show up, my men will find you in whatever North Side tavern you’re hiding in, and they will feed you your own teeth through a straw. Do we understand each other?”
Boyd nodded frantically, unable to speak, saliva dribbling down his chin.
Moretti released his grip abruptly, sending Boyd stumbling backward into the slush. “Get off my property.”
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Boyd scrambled up from the icy ground, terrified out of his mind, scrambled into his rusted truck, peeled out tires spinning in the slush, and vanished into the snowy night without looking back.
Moretti watched him go, brushed a single snowflake off the sleeve of his coat, and turned calmly back toward the mansion.
