Chapter 4 - THE WOMAN HE COULDN’T ORDER HOME
Z
Adrian returned to Chicago.
That should have made everything easier.
Instead, it made silence louder.
For the first two weeks, he contacted me exactly once.
One email.
No threats.
No arguments.
No dramatic promises.
Claire,
Rachel Morgan contacted my attorney. I instructed him to cooperate with every reasonable financial disclosure request.
You will receive access to your personal accounts immediately. They should never have required my authorization.
I am sorry that they did.
I will not come to Toronto unless you ask.
Adrian.
I read it six times.
Not because it was romantic.
Because it was the first message Adrian had sent me in years that did not contain an instruction.
Meanwhile, Eleanor gave me a job.
Technically, she offered me a partnership.
I refused.
“I haven’t restored anything since college.”
“You studied conservation for three years.”
“Before my parents died.”
“And?”
“And then life changed.”
“Life changes again.”
So I started small.
Cleaning varnish.
Cataloging damaged frames.
Researching provenance.
For eight hours every day, I worked with objects that had survived centuries of careless hands.
There was something comforting about restoration.
You could not erase damage.
Good conservation did not pretend a crack had never existed.
It stabilized it.
Respected it.
Made sure the object could continue carrying its history without being destroyed by it.
I tried not to think about the metaphor.
Three weeks after I arrived in Toronto, Rachel called.
“Adrian’s attorney sent the first asset disclosures.”
“That fast?”
“He appears motivated.”
“To avoid a scandal?”
“Possibly.”
I stared out the window.
“What am I entitled to?”
Rachel hesitated.
“A great deal.”
“I don’t want a great deal.”
“Claire.”
“I want what was mine before the marriage and whatever the law says is reasonable. I don’t want hotels. I don’t want clubs. I definitely don’t want warehouses.”
“You may own interests in several whether you want them or not.”
“What?”
Rachel emailed documents while we spoke.
I opened them.
My name appeared beside percentages of Moretti Hospitality Holdings.
Moretti Security.
Three commercial properties.
A charitable foundation.
“What is this?”
“Your husband transferred equity into your name throughout the marriage.”
“I never signed these.”
“Some were marital trusts. Some were gifts.”
“Why?”
“You’ll have to ask him.”
I didn’t.
Not immediately.
Then something stranger happened.
A courier delivered a wooden crate to Hart & Bennett.
No sender.
Inside were seventeen pieces of blue porcelain.
Every surviving fragment of my grandmother’s vase.
I stared at them until Eleanor came over.
“How?”
“The ballroom employees probably collected them.”
There was a note.
Not from Adrian.
From Maria.
Mrs. Moretti,
Mr. Moretti ordered everyone to leave the ballroom untouched after reviewing the footage.
He personally searched the room afterward.
He found these.
I thought they belonged with you.
—Maria
Personally.
I imagined Adrian Moretti, feared by half of Chicago, kneeling on a marble ballroom floor searching beneath tables for broken pieces of the vase he had called replaceable.
I hated that the image hurt.
Eleanor examined the fragments.
“We can repair it.”
My breath caught.
“Can you?”
“It won’t be invisible.”
“I don’t want invisible.”
She looked at me.
“Good answer.”
We began the restoration the following Monday.
Each fragment had to be matched.
Edges cleaned.
Surfaces stabilized.
Missing portions reconstructed.
It would take months.
So would I.
Then Sofia Russo called me.
I almost ignored the unknown number.
“Hello?”
“Claire.”
Every muscle in my body tightened.
“Sofia.”
“I need to talk to you.”
“No.”
“You don’t understand what’s happening.”
“I understand enough.”
“Adrian fired me.”
“That sounds like a personal problem.”
“He thinks I destroyed your marriage.”
“You helped.”
“He destroyed it himself.”
That surprised me.
“I’m aware.”
She went quiet.
Then she said, “You think he sent me away because he suddenly respects you?”
“I don’t particularly care why he sent you away.”
“You should.”
“Why?”
“Because Adrian isn’t protecting you anymore.”
A cold sensation traveled down my spine.
“What does that mean?”
“You left Chicago without security. You’re walking around Toronto like you’re some ordinary woman.”
“I am an ordinary woman.”
Sofia laughed.
“No, Claire. You’re Adrian Moretti’s wife.”
“Not for long.”
“That makes you more dangerous, not less.”
I glanced toward the office window.
People moved along the snowy sidewalk.
Nothing unusual.
“What do you want?”
“To warn you.”
“Why?”
“Because someone asked me where you were.”
My fingers tightened around the phone.
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then how were you supposed to answer?”
“They offered money.”
“How much?”
“Half a million dollars.”
I stopped breathing.
“For my location?”
“Yes.”
“Did you tell them?”
Silence.
My heart began pounding.
“Sofia.”
“I didn’t know where you were.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“I gave them the name of your grandmother.”
I closed my eyes.
She had led Adrian to me indirectly.
She had also led someone else.
“You stupid—”
“I needed money!”
“You sold information about me?”
“I didn’t think they’d hurt you.”
“What did you think someone paying half a million dollars wanted?”
She started crying.
I felt absolutely nothing.
“Who contacted you?”
“A man named Vale.”
“First name?”
“I don’t know.”
“Phone number?”
“The call was blocked.”
“Where did you meet him?”
“I didn’t.”
“Then how did he pay you?”
Another pause.
“Sofia?”
She whispered, “He hasn’t yet.”
Before I could answer, Eleanor shouted from the front room.
“Claire!”
I turned.
A black SUV had stopped outside.
Two men stepped onto the sidewalk.
Neither wore coats despite the freezing temperature.
One looked directly through the window at me.
My phone was still against my ear.
Sofia whispered, “Claire?”
I backed away from the glass.
“Yes?”
May you like
Her next words were almost inaudible.
“Run.”
