Chapter 10 - THE VISIT TO THE PENITENTIARY
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Three months passed under the warm, radiant sunshine of a Chicago summer.
The transformation of the Moretti estate was nothing short of miraculous.
The high iron gates had been repaired and painted black with gold leaf, standing proud against the blue horizon of Lake Michigan.
The south-side docks were operating at record efficiency, free from the violent extortion that had plagued them for decades.
Under my direction and with Antonella’s guidance, the family business had successfully transitioned ninety percent of its operations into legal shipping and logistics.
The federal investigations had been closed, satisfied by our complete cooperation in dismantling the Romano crime network.
On a Tuesday morning in August, my private car pulled up to the Cook County Department of Corrections.
Marco, whose shoulder had fully healed, opened the rear door and escorted me through the heavy security checkpoints.
I wore an immaculate cream-colored linen suit, dark sunglasses, and the antique gold wedding band Antonella had given me from her own collection.
I was ushered into the private attorney-client visitation room.
The concrete walls were gray, cold, and lit by buzzing fluorescent bulbs.
A heavy plexiglass partition separated the two metal chairs.
The door on the prisoner’s side clicked open, and Gabriel Moretti shuffled into the room.
The shock of seeing him made my breath catch for half a second.
The handsome, arrogant mafia king who had ruled the city in bespoke Italian suits was completely unrecognizable.
His hair was roughly shaved, his face hollowed out and gray, his jaw covered in an unkempt beard.
He wore an oversized orange jumpsuit with standard-issue canvas slip-ons.
Heavy steel chains bound his wrists to a leather belt around his waist.
He sat down slowly on the metal stool, picking up the black plastic receiver with trembling, shackled hands.
I sat down opposite him and lifted my receiver to my ear.
“Hello, Gabriel,” I said, my voice perfectly calm and steady.
Gabriel looked at me through the smudged plexiglass, his dark eyes brimming with a mixture of bitter humiliation and desperate hope.
“You look beautiful, Claire,” he whispered, his voice hoarse from months of shouting in the holding cells.
“I am doing well, Gabriel,” I replied simply.
“Nonna is doing even better. Her garden won first prize at the Gold Coast Horticultural Showcase last weekend.”
A muscle twitched in Gabriel’s cheek at the mention of his grandmother.
“How is she?” he asked quietly.
“Does she ever ask about me?”
“Never,” I answered honestly.
“To Antonella, you died the night you let armed men enter her home.”
Gabriel flinched as if I had slapped him across the face.
He leaned closer to the glass, his chains rattling loudly against the metal counter.
“Claire, you have to talk to Judge DeLuca,” Gabriel pleaded, his eyes wide and frantic.
“The feds are hitting me with thirty counts of tax fraud and money laundering from the Romano accounts!”
“The prosecutor is asking for twenty-five years!”
“Isabella turned state’s evidence two weeks ago—she blamed the entire conspiracy on me to save her own skin!”
I listened to him without interrupting, feeling nothing but a profound, empty pity.
“Isabella was always practical, Gabriel,” I said softly.
“You should have known she would trade you the moment the handcuffs snapped shut.”
“Claire, please!” Gabriel begged, pressing his shackled hands against the glass.
“I made a mistake! I was stupid, I was blind!”
“I never stopped loving you, Claire! You were the only real thing in my life!”
“Sign the character affidavit for the judge! Use the trust money to hire Sullivan and Cromwell!”
“If you get me out, I will step down! I’ll let you run everything! I just want to come home!”
I looked at the man I had loved for seven years.
The man whose approval I had begged for.
The man who had pulled his hand away from mine as though my touch embarrassed him.
I reached into my leather handbag, pulled out an official legal folder, and slid it beneath the documents slot at the base of the partition.
“What is this?” Gabriel whispered, staring at the blue papers.
“Those are our divorce papers, Gabriel,” I said, each word ringing with absolute, liberating finality.
“I have already signed them.”
“Judge DeLuca has waived the waiting period.”
“You will sign the settlement, or I will hand the Swiss bank records over to Special Agent Vance this afternoon.”
Gabriel looked down at the divorce petition, his chest rising and falling in shallow, panicked gasps.
“You’re leaving me with nothing,” he whispered, tears finally spilling down his hollow cheeks.
“No money. No house. No family.”
“I’m leaving you with your life, Gabriel,” I replied, standing up from the metal chair.
May you like
“Which is considerably more than you were willing to leave me.”
I hung up the plastic receiver, turned my back on his frantic shouting against the glass, and walked out into the bright morning sunshine.
