Chapter 9 - THE NIGHT ADRIAN LOST HIS EMPIRE
Z
Lucien Vale struck back on a Thursday.
Not with bullets.
With numbers.
Within six hours, three banks froze Moretti commercial accounts after anonymous evidence linked the company to historic trafficking routes described in my grandmother’s files.
Moretti Hospitality shares dropped.
Two board members resigned.
A shipping partner suspended operations.
News vans surrounded Moretti Tower.
Rachel called me shortly after lunch.
“Adrian’s companies are being searched.”
My stomach tightened.
“By federal agents?”
“Yes.”
“Is he being arrested?”
“Not currently.”
“Currently?”
“That’s the word his attorney used.”
I stared at the restored half of my grandmother’s vase.
This was exactly what Adrian had warned could happen.
And he had still told me to release the evidence.
I called him.
He answered on the first ring.
“Claire.”
“What’s happening?”
“Federal search warrants.”
“Because of Margaret’s records?”
“Partly.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t.”
“Adrian—”
“You have nothing to apologize for.”
“Your companies are collapsing.”
“They are companies.”
The sentence stunned me because it sounded so unlike the man who once measured his entire life in assets.
“Are you in danger?”
“Yes.”
“Legal?”
“Yes.”
“Physical?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
“Vale?”
“Probably.”
“Where are you?”
“Moretti Tower.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t be.”
“Maybe.”
“Adrian.”
A faint sound came through the call.
Men shouting.
Then an alarm.
“Adrian?”
“Stay in Toronto.”
“What happened?”
“Claire.”
The line went dead.
I stood so quickly my chair fell.
Marcus appeared in the doorway.
“What?”
“Something happened at Moretti Tower.”
Within minutes, news broke.
Explosion in Underground Parking Structure at Moretti Tower.
Possible targeted attack.
No confirmed casualties.
I couldn’t breathe.
Every terrible night of our marriage returned at once.
Waiting for Adrian.
Watching clocks.
Listening for cars.
Wondering whether the next knock would bring death.
I hated that my body still remembered loving him before my mind could intervene.
Twenty-three minutes later, Rachel’s phone rang.
She looked at me.
“It’s Adrian.”
I grabbed it.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
His voice was strained.
“You’re hurt.”
“Minor.”
“What does minor mean in your world?”
“Three stitches.”
“Where?”
“My shoulder.”
I sat down.
“Vale?”
“One of his people planted an incendiary device.”
“You could have died.”
“Yes.”
Silence.
Then Adrian said quietly, “Would that matter?”
Anger exploded through me.
“Don’t do that.”
“I’m not—”
“Don’t ask me whether your death would matter just because I filed for divorce.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You think leaving means I want you dead?”
“No.”
“You think because I refuse to stay married to you, I stopped loving you?”
Silence.
My own words shocked me.
Adrian breathed out.
“Claire.”
I closed my eyes.
“I still love you.”
Nothing moved inside the room.
Even Eleanor froze.
I had finally said the thing I had spent weeks avoiding.
Then I added, “And I’m still divorcing you.”
Adrian was silent for a long time.
“I understand.”
That answer hurt more than an argument would have.
“No, you don’t.”
“I’m trying.”
“I love the man you were with me before you decided protecting me meant managing me. I love the man who used to bring me coffee when I worked late. I love the idiot who learned how to bake because I once said I missed my grandmother’s lemon cake.”
His breathing changed.
“But I cannot build a life around waiting for that man to reappear whenever the powerful one gets tired.”
“I know.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because every day I discover something else I should have understood sooner.”
I wiped my face.
“Get your shoulder treated.”
“Yes.”
“And Adrian?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t die.”
His voice became almost inaudible.
“I’ll do my best.”
Federal investigators eventually cleared several Moretti subsidiaries of involvement in the historic art network.
But the damage was done.
Adrian lost two major contracts.
One bank severed ties permanently.
His board forced restructuring.
For years, everyone believed Adrian Moretti was untouchable.
Lucien Vale proved otherwise.
And instead of retaliating the way Chicago expected, Adrian did something shocking.
He cooperated.
Fully.
He gave federal investigators access to archives going back twenty years.
He identified illegal operations created under his father.
He surrendered licenses.
Closed companies.
Paid penalties.
Men who once respected him called him weak.
Others called him a traitor.
Adrian dismantled pieces of the empire he had inherited.
Not because the government forced all of it.
Because he chose to.
When I asked him why, he answered simply.
“I’m tired of building things you need security guards to survive.”
That sentence stayed with me.
Then Lucien made his second mistake.
He called me directly.
“Mrs. Moretti.”
“Bennett.”
He laughed softly.
“Not yet.”
“What do you want?”
“Your grandmother’s original documents.”
“They’re with federal investigators.”
“Copies.”
“Then you have no reason to call.”
“Actually, I do.”
My blood went cold.
In the background, I heard a woman crying.
Sofia.
Lucien spoke again.
“Bring me the originals anyway.”
“You just said—”
“I want something that matters to Adrian.”
My throat tightened.
“What?”
“You.”
May you like
A pause.
“And if you don’t come, I’ll send Ms. Russo back to him one piece at a time.”
