Chapter 12 - The Moretti Reckoning
The ride back to Chicago was silent and deadly.
We didn't take the Suburban; it was riddled with bullet holes. A secondary convoy of four heavily armored black sedans had arrived at dawn, carrying eight of Victor’s most loyal, stone-faced soldiers.
Finn slept in the back of the lead car, his head resting in my lap, completely exhausted by the terror of the night.
Victor sat beside me, staring straight ahead. His hand rested on the leather seat between us. After an hour of driving, his fingers slowly drifted across the console, brushing against mine, before lacing through my fingers with a quiet, unbreakable grip.
He didn't look at me. He didn't say a word. But he didn't let go of my hand for the entire two-hour drive.
When we pulled up to the Rossi estate in Chicago, the damage from the first attack had already been cleared away by a private cleanup crew. New glass was being installed in the grand foyer. The blood had been scrubbed from the marble.
To the outside world, nothing had happened. But the mansion felt different now. It didn't feel like a cold, empty prison anymore. It felt like a fortress under siege.
Marcus took Finn up to his room, promising to play video games with him until I came up.
Victor walked into the grand library, where three men were waiting in the shadows.
Tied to a heavy wooden chair in the center of the room was Julian Vance-Vincenzo—a handsome, polished man in his early thirties, wearing an expensive Italian suit that was now wrinkled and stained with sweat. Julian was Elena’s younger brother, the high-society heir to a fading aristocratic empire.
“Victor!” Julian gasped as the door clicked shut. “Victor, thank God! Your men… they grabbed me from my penthouse! They’re crazy! Tell them to untie me!”
Victor didn't answer. He walked slowly across the room, shedding his heavy coat, revealing the dark, blood-stained bandages beneath his shirt. He stopped two feet in front of Julian.
“How much did Moretti pay you?” Victor asked quietly.
Julian’s face went chalk-white. “What? What are you talking about? Moretti? I don't know any Moretti!”
Victor didn't raise his voice. He didn't scream. He simply reached out, grabbed Julian’s silk tie, and pulled it tight, cutting off the man’s oxygen in an instant.
“You gave them the Lake Geneva coordinates,” Victor whispered. “You knew Finn was there.”
“No!” Julian choked out, his eyes bulging as he clawed at Victor’s iron grip. “No, Victor! They told me… they swore they just wanted you! They said they wouldn't hurt the boy! I needed the money! The gambling debts… they were going to kill me!”
Victor’s expression didn't change. It was a mask of pure, unadulterated death.
“Elena protected you,” Victor said softly. “Before she died, she made me swear I would never harm her brother. She made me promise to keep you safe.”
Julian sobbed, nodding frantically. “Yes! You promised her! You promised Elena!”
Victor leaned in, his lips inches from Julian’s ear.
“Elena isn't here,” Victor whispered. “And you tried to kill my son.”
Victor let go of the tie. Julian gasped, drawing in lungfuls of air, weeping with relief.
“Untie him,” Victor commanded his men.
Julian looked up, stunned. “You’re… you’re letting me go?”
“Take him to the docks,” Victor said coldly, turning his back on the room and walking toward the door. “Put him on a cargo ship to South America. Strip his bank accounts. Take his passport. If his feet ever touch American soil again, shoot him on sight.”
Julian began to scream, begging, weeping, as Victor’s men hauled him out of the chair and dragged him through the side entrance.
Victor stood alone in the center of the library.
I was standing in the doorway, my arms crossed over my chest. I had seen everything.
Victor slowly turned his head to look at me. “Does that make me a monster in your eyes, Harper?”
I looked at him—bruised, bleeding, broken by grief and betrayal, yet fiercely protective of his son.
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“No,” I said softly, walking toward him until I stood right in front of his chest. “It makes you a father.”
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