Chapter 15 - THE LAST GHOST OF THE MORETTI NAME
Z
We almost lost everything again six weeks later.
Not because of Sofia.
Not because of Lucien.
Because of Adrian’s father.
Dead men, I discovered, could still destroy lives.
Federal investigators uncovered an account connected to Moretti shipping operations.
Thirty million dollars.
Unreported.
Illegal.
Created fifteen years earlier.
Adrian’s signature appeared on the original authorization.
He was twenty years old.
The press exploded.
MORETTI CRIME EMPIRE NEVER ENDED.
ADRIAN MORETTI FACES POSSIBLE INDICTMENT.
Rachel called me before Adrian did.
“He may be charged.”
“With what?”
“Money laundering. Conspiracy. Depends what investigators establish.”
My heart dropped.
I called him.
No answer.
Again.
Nothing.
Old fear returned.
Then a message.
ADRIAN: I need a few hours before I speak to you.
I stared at it.
During our marriage, unexplained disappearance would have sent me spiraling.
This was different.
He communicated.
Not perfectly.
But enough.
Four hours later, Adrian arrived at my apartment.
He looked exhausted.
“I signed the account.”
“You were twenty.”
“I knew it was suspicious.”
“Did you know what it did?”
“No.”
“Can you prove that?”
“I don’t know.”
I poured him water.
“What happens?”
“I cooperate.”
“Prison?”
“Possible.”
The word hollowed me.
“How long?”
“My attorney says worst case could be several years.”
I sat down.
Adrian watched me.
Then he said something that made me furious.
“If I’m charged, I want you to leave.”
I looked up.
“What?”
“I don’t want this following you again.”
“You don’t decide that.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you talking like you do?”
He rubbed his face.
“Old habits.”
“Terrible ones.”
“Yes.”
I stepped closer.
“You spent two years learning that I choose whether I stay.”
“Yes.”
“So don’t insult both of us by deciding for me now.”
His eyes darkened.
“What do you choose?”
“I choose to wait until we know whether you committed a crime before scheduling prison visitation.”
He laughed unexpectedly.
I continued.
“And if you did knowingly commit one?”
His smile disappeared.
“Then?”
“Then I’ll love you while letting you face consequences.”
Adrian stared.
“You wouldn’t defend me?”
“Emotionally? Maybe.”
“Publicly?”
“Not if you’re guilty.”
His expression softened.
“That may be the most Claire answer you’ve ever given me.”
The investigation took three months.
Forensic accounting eventually showed Adrian had signed the authorization as a junior company officer without controlling the account.
His father had used a digital signature for later transactions.
Adrian was not charged.
But something else emerged.
Moretti family money had been used for decades to pay families after violent incidents.
Not charity.
Silence.
Adrian turned every file over to investigators.
Several retired officials were implicated.
So were businessmen I recognized from the ballroom where our marriage ended.
Chicago society reacted like someone had ripped open a beautiful wall and revealed mold underneath.
Adrian lost friends.
Board seats.
Invitations.
He didn’t seem bothered.
One night, while we ate takeout on my apartment floor because my dining table was covered in foundation files, I asked, “Do you miss it?”
“What?”
“Being feared.”
He considered the question.
“Sometimes.”
His honesty surprised me.
“Why?”
“Fear is efficient.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“It is.”
He took another bite.
“Respect requires more work.”
“And love?”
His eyes met mine.
“Apparently love requires exhausting amounts of work.”
I threw a napkin at him.
He caught it.
Then he became serious.
“I don’t miss who I was with you.”
I stopped.
“I miss parts of our marriage.”
“So do I.”
“But I don’t miss the certainty.”
“What certainty?”
“That you would always stay.”
His expression was calm.
“I think that certainty made me careless.”
I reached for his hand.
“I’m here now.”
“I know.”
“For tonight.”
His fingers tightened.
“For tonight.”
That became our language.
Not forever.
Not ownership.
Tonight.
Tomorrow, if chosen again.
A week later, Adrian sold the Moretti family mansion.
The same house I had left with one suitcase.
Maria called me crying.
“I thought he would die in that house.”
“Where’s he moving?”
“A condominium.”
I laughed.
Adrian Moretti in a condominium sounded like a sitcom.
Then Maria added, “He found something while packing your old room.”
“What?”
The next evening, a package arrived.
Inside was a yellow scarf.
My grandmother’s.
I had thought it was lost.
A note from Adrian rested beneath it.
You wore this on our second date.
You said Margaret used to tie it around your hair when you were little.
I kept it because it smelled like you.
I should have returned it sooner.
—A
I pressed the scarf against my face.
It no longer smelled like me.
It smelled faintly of cedar from the old Moretti closets.
But memory filled in the rest.
That night, I called Adrian.
“Come over.”
He arrived thirty minutes later.
When I opened the door, his eyes went to the scarf around my neck.
“Claire.”
I pulled him inside.
May you like
Then kissed him before he could say anything intelligent.
For once, neither of us needed a speech.
