Chapter 7 - The Trap in the Dark
Vincent didn't sleep.
For three weeks, the penthouse office of Moretti Tower had become a war room. Floor-to-ceiling whiteboards were covered with timelines, flight logs, and lists of names. Vincent’s lieutenants moved through the city like ghosts, tearing apart transportation networks, interrogating ticket agents, and tracing burner phone activations across six states.
Every lead went cold.
Claire had vanished into thin air. She hadn't used a bank card. She hadn't called her old college friends. She hadn't contacted any charities she previously supported. She was acting like a deep-cover operative who understood tradecraft better than half his soldiers.
And then, a tiny crack appeared.
Miller rushed into Vincent’s private office at two in the morning, holding a tablet displaying a secure server alert.
"Boss," Miller breathed, his eyes wide. "We caught a ping."
Vincent rose from his chair like a coiled spring. "Where?"
"An IP address tied to a small, private veterinary clinic outside Portland, Maine," Miller said, pulling up a map. "Someone accessed Claire’s old personal cloud account from a secure browser for exactly thirty-eight seconds yesterday afternoon."
Vincent’s heart slammed against his ribs. "What did she access?"
"A scanned copy of her childhood dog’s vaccination records from twelve years ago," Miller replied. "She must be adopting a pet, or needed proof of something local. She used three VPNs, but the exit node dropped for half a second before the connection terminated."
Vincent stared at the flashing red dot on the coast of Maine.
*Portland. Cape Elizabeth. Kennebunkport.*
A memory struck him—sharp, sudden, and blinding.
Six years ago, during their second anniversary, they had driven up the New England coast in a vintage roadster. Claire had pointed out a weathered, isolated lighthouse near Cape Elizabeth, her eyes shining in the autumn twilight.
*“If I could live anywhere in the world, Vincent,”* she had said, leaning her head against his shoulder as the ocean breeze tangled her hair, *“it wouldn't be Paris or Rome. It would be right here. In a tiny house where the only sound is the water.”*
He had laughed at the time, calling it provincial, promising her a penthouse overlooking Central Park instead. He hadn't listened. He had never truly listened to what she wanted; he had only given her what he thought a man of his stature should give his wife.
"Get the jet ready," Vincent ordered, reaching for his coat.
"Boss," Dominic warned, stepping into the doorway. "If Park finds out we tracked her, those USB files go to the U.S. Attorney. The feds are already watching our South Side warehouse after the audit last week. If you leave the jurisdiction—"
"I don't give a damn about the feds!" Vincent roared, his voice shaking the glass walls. "Dominic, prepare the plane. Just you and me. No weapons. No team. If she sees an army, she’ll run again."
"Vincent, you can't force her back," Dominic said quietly, risking the boss’s wrath with the blunt honesty of an old soldier. "You know what happens if you try to drag her home."
Vincent stopped, his fingers gripping the back of his chair until his knuckles turned bloodless.
"I’m not going there to drag her back, Dominic," Vincent whispered, his voice cracking with a pain he had never allowed another human being to witness. "I’m going there to look her in the eye and ask her how to fix this."
Four hours later, a nondescript black SUV turned onto the narrow, gravel road leading toward the Cape Elizabeth cliffs. The morning mist was thick, clinging to the salt marshes like smoke.
Through the trees, the weathered cedar shingles of the cottage emerged against the gray backdrop of the ocean.
Vincent stepped out of the vehicle into the freezing wind. His heart hammered in his throat, a sensation he hadn't felt since he was a nineteen-year-old street soldier facing his first rival crew in an alleyway. But this fear was infinitely worse.
He walked up the gravel path, his dress shoes crunching against the stones.
As he reached the foot of the wooden porch steps, the front door opened.
Claire stepped onto the porch.
She wore thick wool socks, worn denim jeans, and an oversized cream knit sweater. Her dark hair was tied back in a loose, messy knot. In her hand, she held a steaming mug of tea.
She looked at him.
She didn't scream. She didn't drop the mug. She didn't turn and run into the house to lock the door.
May you like
She just stood there, looking down at him from the top of the steps, her gray eyes clear, steady, and utterly unmoved by the presence of the most dangerous man in Chicago.
***
