Chapter 2 - The Woman Who Vanished
Vincent Moretti had spent fifteen years building an empire that made powerful men lower their voices when he entered a room.
He owned three luxury casinos, two private hotels, and enough property across Las Vegas to make politicians return his calls before their own wives'.
But at 2:17 in the morning, he sat alone on his kitchen floor, holding a wedding ring that suddenly felt heavier than everything he owned.
His wife was gone.
And the papers scattered around him explained exactly why.
"Find her."
His head of security, Marco DeLuca, stood near the kitchen entrance.
"Sir, we've checked the airport, her usual hotels, and every property registered under her name. Nothing."
"Then check again."
"Mr. Moretti—"
Vincent slammed his fist against the marble countertop.
"I SAID FIND MY WIFE!"
Marco went silent.
Vincent looked down at the emergency-room discharge papers.
The words blurred.
Severe allergic reaction.
Emergency administration of epinephrine.
Potentially life-threatening airway compromise.
He remembered Claire standing in their kitchen, her face pale, asking him not to bring mango near her.
He remembered Isabella laughing.
He remembered telling Claire she was making a scene.
And then he remembered walking upstairs.
He had left his wife downstairs, struggling to breathe, while he listened to another woman's problems.
His stomach turned.
"Marco," he said quietly, "where was I when the ambulance came?"
Marco hesitated.
"Sir, you were upstairs."
"I know that. Why didn't anyone tell me?"
"The house staff believed Mrs. Moretti had informed you."
Vincent closed his eyes.
She hadn't.
Because she had already learned that he wouldn't listen.
His phone vibrated.
Isabella.
He stared at her name.
For months, he'd answered her calls without hesitation. If she wanted dinner, he arranged it. If she cried, he appeared. If she needed comfort, he provided it.
Meanwhile, Claire had been asking for the smallest things.
A quiet dinner.
An anniversary without interruptions.
A sunrise together.
And he'd treated every request like an inconvenience.
The phone rang again.
Vincent answered.
"Vincent!" Isabella exclaimed. "I've been trying to reach you. Are we still having brunch tomorrow?"
He stared at the empty kitchen.
"No."
A pause.
"Is something wrong?"
"Claire left."
Silence.
Then Isabella gave a nervous laugh.
"Oh, Vincent. She's probably trying to teach you a lesson."
His fingers tightened around the phone.
"What did you say?"
"Come on. You know how dramatic she gets when she thinks you're paying too much attention to me."
Vincent slowly stood.
"She was pregnant."
Another silence.
"What?"
"Claire was pregnant. She lost the baby yesterday."
"Vincent, I didn't—"
"And she nearly died from a mango allergy."
Isabella's breathing changed.
"That's terrible, but surely you don't think—"
"Did you know?"
"Know what?"
"About her allergy."
"She mentioned something once, but—"
"Did. You. Know?"
Isabella began crying.
"I would never hurt Claire intentionally!"
Vincent ended the call.
For the first time, her tears sounded like noise instead of an emergency.
Across the city, Claire sat in the back seat of an ordinary gray sedan.
Her phone was switched off.
Her wedding band was gone.
She watched the Las Vegas skyline disappear behind her.
The driver glanced at her in the mirror.
"Where to, ma'am?"
"Flagstaff."
"That's a long drive."
"I know."
He noticed the hospital bracelet still wrapped around her wrist.
"Are you sure you're okay?"
Claire looked at the fading lights.
"No," she whispered. "But I will be."
She had planned to travel farther, somewhere Vincent's influence couldn't reach.
For now, she needed somewhere quiet enough to hear herself think.
Her attorney, Evelyn Brooks, had helped arrange a short-term apartment under a confidential lease. Claire had packed only her personal belongings, a few family photographs, and documents proving the businesses she owned before marrying Vincent.
She had left every expensive gift behind.
Even the diamond necklace he bought after forgetting their second anniversary.
Her phone remained off.
But inside her handbag was a second phone.
One Vincent knew nothing about.
It belonged to her late father.
Before his death, he'd given it to Claire with one strange warning.
"If you ever discover the man you married isn't who you thought he was, call the number saved under HOME."
She had never understood his words.
Until now.
At a gas station outside Kingman, she turned on the old phone.
There was one unread message.
It had arrived three hours earlier.
Unknown Number: Claire, your father didn't die in an accident. And Vincent Moretti knows why.
Claire stopped breathing for an entirely different reason.
The message continued.
If you want the truth, don't let your husband find you.
She looked up.
May you like
A black SUV had just pulled into the station.
And the man stepping out was staring directly at her car.
