Chapter 2 - The Paper Trail
The ride to Northwestern Memorial Hospital was supposed to be a quiet transition to a high-risk maternity ward, but the bulletproof SUV felt like a moving war room.
Adrian sat across from me in the spacious leather interior, his phone pressed to his ear while he barked rapid-fire Italian commands into the receiver. Outside the tinted windows, the gray Chicago skyline blurred past under a heavy October drizzle. My mind was racing, torn between the terrifying medical reality of placenta accreta and the sudden, chilling implication of Marcus’s report.
“No,” Adrian snapped into the phone, cutting off whoever was speaking on the other end. “I don't want the warehouse secured. I want every security camera from Ohio Street to the river pulled within twenty minutes. If the car used a fake plate, check tollway transponders by weight class. Move.”
He hung up and dropped the phone into his coat pocket, running a hand through his dark hair. When he looked at me, the sharp edges of his exhaustion were visible around his eyes.
“You should be resting, Claire,” he said, his voice dropping into a softer register that felt entirely unnatural coming from him. “Lean back against the headrest. The suspension in this vehicle is adjusted for medical transport.”
“I’m fine, Adrian,” I said, though my lower back ached with a dull, persistent cramp that I hadn't dared mention to Dr. Sloan. I crossed my arms over my coat. “Let’s talk about what Marcus said. Why would anyone break into your private safe to steal divorce asset transfer agreements?”
Adrian looked out the window for a long moment, watching the rain streak across the glass.
“Because those papers weren't just about dividing property,” he said quietly. “When we divorced, my legal team drafted a supplementary trust. It was designed to protect you and any future dependents from federal seizure or rival retaliation in the event of an indictment against Moretti Holdings.”
My breath caught. “You set up a trust for me? Even after you divorced me?”
“Especially after I divorced you,” he turned back to face me, his dark eyes fierce. “You think I could just walk away from you, Claire? You think signing a piece of paper erased three years of my life? I needed to ensure that no matter what happened to me—whether the DOJ took every building I own or a rival family made a move—you would have absolute financial immunity. Clean money. Untraceable assets.”
“And someone stole it?”
“Someone stole the master copy,” Adrian corrected, his jaw tightening. “Which means whoever broke in didn't just want leverage against my business. They wanted to know what I owned, where it was hidden, and—most importantly—who my primary beneficiary was.”
I stared at him, the pieces clicking together with terrifying clarity. “If they look at the supplementary trust documents... they’ll see provisions for dependents.”
“Yes,” Adrian said grimly. “They would see that I left provisions for a child born within a specific window after our separation. They didn't know you were pregnant, Claire. But whoever stole those papers is about to figure it out.”
The SUV slowed to a smooth stop beneath the grand, covered entrance of Northwestern Memorial’s private maternity wing. A team of nurses and a resident physician were already waiting by the curb, accompanied by Marcus, who opened my door before the vehicle had even fully settled.
For the next two hours, my world narrowed to cold examination tables, IV needles, heart monitors, and a battery of blood tests. Adrian stood quietly in the corner of the room, speaking in low whispers to a specialist he had flown in from Michigan Avenue, ensuring every precaution was taken. Despite my initial resistance, I couldn't deny the relief of having the finest medical minds in Illinois hovering over my chart.
By late afternoon, I was settled into a quiet, high-floor recovery suite overlooking Lake Michigan. The room was larger than my entire apartment, furnished with modern wood accents and a wide window framing the churning gray water of the lake.
Adrian sat in a plush armchair beside the bed, peeling an orange with methodical precision.
“You need to eat something other than hospital broth,” he said, offering me a clean slice on a small ceramic plate.
I took it, chewing slowly while watching the way the late-day sun caught the silver threads at his temples. Six months ago, I would have thought he was invincible. Now, watching him field encrypted texts on his phone while keeping a constant vigil over my hospital tray, I realized how vulnerable we both were.
“Adrian,” I said softly. “Who knew about the supplementary trust?”
He stopped peeling the orange. The silence in the room stretched out, heavy and cold.
“Only three people,” Adrian said, his voice dangerously low. “Myself, my corporate attorney Arthur Vance, and Dante Moretti.”
My stomach dropped. Dante. Adrian’s younger cousin and the vice president of Moretti Holdings—a man whose polished corporate suit always looked like a costume hiding a knife.
“Dante?” I echoed. “Your own blood?”
“Dante has spent the last two years believing he was the natural successor to the entire operation,” Adrian said, his eyes narrowing. “He thought my marriage to you was a weakness. When I divorced you, he thought I was cleaning house to secure the dynasty for him. If he saw those trust documents... if he realizes there is an heir—a biological daughter—coming into the picture...”
Adrian didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.
Before I could process the threat, my phone buzzed on the bedside table. It wasn't my phone, actually—it was the burner phone Marcus had handed me at the hospital entrance for secure communication.
The screen lit up with an unknown number. A single text message glowed against the dark display:
Congratulations on the family reunion, Boss. Too bad the baby shower is going to be held at a funeral.
May you like
I stared at the screen, my heart hammering against my ribs, and held the phone out toward Adrian.
---
