Chapter 12
"Mrs. Moretti—pardon me, Ms. Bennett," one of the guards said nervously, keeping his hands visibly raised. "Mr. Moretti isn't asking for a fight. He just wants five minutes in his office down the street. He said... he said if you don't come, he'll follow you to Boston tonight."
I felt a surge of cold rage. He was still trying to exert control. But as I looked at the dark street and realized Vincent would indeed use every resource in his vast network to track our every move in Boston if I didn't deal with him now, I realized I had to face him on my terms.
"We go in my taxi," I said coldly. "And my attorney will be on speakerphone the entire time."
Ten minutes later, I stood inside the high-floor executive office of the Moretti Tower in downtown Chicago. Emily was seated comfortably in the adjoining private waiting room, sipping hot chocolate under the watchful eye of a female receptionist I had explicitly vetted before stepping through the door.
The heavy mahogany doors closed behind me, shutting out the muted hum of the city below.
Vincent was standing by the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, staring out at the rain-slicked city skyline. He had removed his suit jacket, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing the dark tattoos of the Moretti family crest etched into his skin.
He turned slowly as I entered. Up close, the seven years were even more evident. Deep, exhausted shadows lay under his gray eyes, and his jaw was set in a tight, agonized line.
"Claire," he breathed, taking a quick step forward, but stopping immediately when I raised a warning hand. "God, Claire... it's really you."
"State your business, Vincent," I said, my voice as hard as flint. "My daughter has a train to catch tomorrow morning."
**“She’s my daughter,”** Vincent said, his voice cracking slightly on the last word—a sound I had never heard from him in all the years I had known him. **“She has my eyes, Claire. She has my mother’s smile. Why didn't you tell me?”**
I let out a harsh, bitter laugh that echoed off the glass walls.
"Why didn't I tell you?" I asked, stepping closer to his desk, leaning forward until I was staring into his hollow face. **“I held her toward you in the hospital hallway seven years ago, Vincent.** I stood behind a yellow curtain in an overflow room, holding a three-hour-old baby, and I called your name. Do you know what you did?"