Chapter 2 - The Tearful Widower
The rain over Manhattan was relentless, washing down the tall tinted windows of the Moretti penthouse on Grand Avenue.
At 2:00 a.m., my convoy pulled up to the private residential lobby. Six heavily armed men in dark suits stepped out first, clearing the marble lobby and holding the private elevator. I walked through the doors flanked by Marco, my heavy wool overcoat draped over my shoulders like a shroud.
When the elevator doors chimed open on the penthouse floor, the scene waiting for us was picture-perfect.
Dominic Christopher Moretti was sitting on a white leather couch in the center of a sprawling, multi-million-dollar living room. His expensive suit jacket was discarded on the floor, his silk tie loosened around his unbuttoned collar. His head was buried in his hands, his shoulders shaking with ragged, breathy sobs.
Standing around him were three of his own family’s senior enforcers, looking tense, their hands hovering near their shoulder holsters as my men flooded the room.
"Victor!" Dominic gasped, looking up as I walked into the room.
His eyes were bloodshot. Tears streamed down his sharp, aristocratic cheeks. He looked utterly broken—a grieving young widow who had just received the worst news of his life. He scrambled off the couch, rushing toward me with open arms.
"Victor... oh God, Victor! Dr. Mercer called me... he said... he said she didn't make it!" Dominic sobbed, reaching out to hug me. "They said someone attacked her car near the alley behind the gala! I should have been with her! I should have stayed!"
I stood entirely rigid. I didn't embrace him back. I let him lean against my chest for three long seconds, feeling the frantic, rapid pulse pounding in his neck.
He's acting, my mind whispered. Every tear is rehearsed.
I reached up, placed my hands firmly on Dominic’s shoulders, and pushed him back just far enough to look him directly in the eye.
"Where were you, Dominic?" I asked. My voice was smooth, devoid of any anger or tremor.
Dominic wiped a tear from his cheek with the back of his trembling hand. "I was here! I was waiting for her! We were supposed to go to the midnight dinner at the Bellevue. She called me at 10:30 p.m. saying her car was pulling around... and then she just vanished! I called her five times, Victor! Look at my phone!"
He reached for his phone on the glass coffee table, shoving the call log into my face.
I didn't look at the screen. I looked down at his shirt.
He was wearing a pristine white silk dress shirt—identical in brand, fabric, and cut to the torn cuff resting inside my coat pocket. But both of his sleeves were completely intact, the dark blue embroidered initials D.C.M. gleaming neatly on his left wrist.
I reached out and grabbed his left wrist, pulling his arm up to inspect the cuff.
Dominic flinched slightly, his eyes darting to Marco, then back to me. "Victor? What... what are you doing?"
"You have very fine taste in shirts, Dominic," I said softly, stroking the expensive silk fabric between my fingers. "Custom tailored in Milan, isn't it? Only twelve of these made per season."
Dominic swallowed hard, forcing a confused frown. "Yes... you bought me a set for my birthday last year, remember? Victor, please, what is happening? Who did this to Isabella?! We need to mobilize the crews! We need to tear this city apart!"
"We will," I said softly. "The men who hurt my daughter are going to suffer in ways this city hasn't seen in fifty years."
I released his wrist. Dominic took a cautious step back, adjusting his collar.
"Dr. Mercer said her injuries were catastrophic," Dominic whimpered, dabbing his eyes with a silk handkerchief. "Did she... did she say anything before she passed, Victor? Did she give a name?"
The room fell dead silent. My men didn't move. Dominic’s enforcers held their breath.
I looked Dominic straight in the eyes, letting a hollow, broken smile touch my lips.
"No, Dominic," I lied smoothly. "She never woke up. She died in silence, holding my hand."
A faint, almost imperceptible fraction of tension left Dominic’s shoulders. His eyes blinked once, a subtle flash of dark relief passing across his face before he quickly covered it again with a handkerchief, leaning back against the sofa.
"God rest her soul," Dominic murmured softly. "I swear on my father's grave, Victor... whoever did this will pay."
"Oh, they will, Dominic," I replied, turning my back on him and walking toward the elevator. "They will pay every single cent."
May you like
As the elevator doors closed between us, I turned to Marco.
"Put a twenty-four-hour wiretap on every landline, cell phone, and digital server in this building," I ordered. "And tell our teams at the docks to prepare the salt pit. We're going to need it very soon."
