Chapter 7 - The Desperate Hunt
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The penthouse on Michigan Avenue was dead silent.
Vincent stood in the middle of the sprawling living room, surrounded by fifty heavily armed men awaiting orders.
Maps of the Midwest, flight logs, and traffic camera printouts covered the glass dining table.
“Find her,” Vincent ordered, his voice dangerously low, vibrating with an edge of pure madness.
“I don't care if you have to turn over every brick in this country.”
“I want every private airfield, every train depot, and every bus terminal locked down right now.”
His chief lieutenant, Marco, stepped forward cautiously with a tablet in his hands.
“Boss, she had help.”
“The security cameras at the hospital loading dock were looped between eight and nine o'clock.”
“A private ambulance left through the service bay with blacked-out plates.”
Vincent swept his arm across the table, sending ceramic cups and crystal decanters crashing onto the marble floor.
The sharp sound exploded through the room, making even hardened hitmen flinch in place.
“How did a woman recovering from an abdominal tear organize an extraction team under my nose?!” he bellowed.
“Arthur Vance,” Marco replied quietly.
“The attorney hired a specialized private extraction firm run by former military contractors.”
“They switched vehicles three times before hitting the interstate.”
“Claire's credit cards haven't been swiped, her cell phone was dropped in a storm drain downtown, and the bank accounts are untouched.”
Vincent collapsed onto the leather couch, burying his face in his hands as a dry sob racked his chest.
She hadn't taken a single dollar of his mafia fortune.
She had taken only what was precious: their fragile, newborn son and her own shattered dignity.
He looked around the pristine living room that he had guarded so neurotically for five years.
There was no loose hair on the couch cushions anymore.
There were no cooking smells lingering in the stainless-steel kitchen.
The house was entirely clean, perfectly orderly, and completely, terrifyingly dead.
He remembered the night he threw away her homemade pasta because the garlic aroma irritated him after a stressful meeting.
He remembered how she had stood by the sink in silence, washing the empty pots with trembling hands while he read his tablet.
He had thought he was teaching her standard household perfection.
In reality, he was systematically extinguishing the only warmth that had ever existed in his dark life.
“Boss?” Marco murmured, holding up a ringing burner phone.
“It’s Sophia.”
“She’s at the front gate downstairs, demanding to see you.”
May you like
Vincent slowly lifted his head, his red-rimmed eyes blazing with an icy, terrifying clarity.
“Bring her up.”
