Chapter 7 - The Lingering Shadow
Two weeks passed.
The bruises on Emily’s wrist had faded from deep violet to a pale, yellowish-green shadow that was barely visible unless the light caught it directly.
She had moved out of the State Parkway residence into a bright, airy loft overlooking the river, leased under her own name with the settlement funds released by the federal court. She had bought her own clothes, her own groceries, and her own furniture.
Every morning, she woke up to silence. No heavy footsteps in the hallway. No sharp criticisms. No terror.
Yet, every two or three days, a small arrangement of white freesia would arrive at her door from an anonymous florist, accompanied by no note—only the quiet, unspoken knowledge that Alexander Moretti’s eyes were never entirely off her perimeter.
On a crisp Tuesday afternoon, Emily was walking out of her bank on LaSalle Street when a shadow fell across her path.
She stepped back instinctively, her hand dropping toward her purse where she now carried pepper spray.
A man stood on the sidewalk, wearing a crumpled trench coat and a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. His face was hollowed out, dark stubble covering his cheeks, his nose crooked from where Marco had broken it against the boardroom table.
Derek.
He had made bail. Someone—perhaps an old fraternity brother or an offshore creditor—had posted the collateral.
“Emily,” he rasped, his voice raw and shaking.
Emily didn't run. Her heart leaped into her throat, but she planted her feet on the concrete, looking at him with a cold, piercing clarity she hadn't possessed a month ago.
“Stay back, Derek,” she said, her voice loud enough to attract the attention of two businessmen walking past. “I have an active order of protection. If you take one step closer, you violate your bail conditions.”
Derek let out a ragged, desperate laugh. “Bail? You think I care about bail? They took my license, Emily! They seized my accounts! I’m facing five years in Terre Haute!”
He stepped forward, reaching out a trembling hand toward her coat sleeve. “You have to tell them you lied. You have to tell the U.S. Attorney that Moretti coerced you! That he forced you to steal that drive!”
“Nobody forced me,” Emily said, looking him dead in the eyes. “I gave them the truth. The only person who destroyed you was yourself.”
Derek’s face twisted into the familiar, ugly snarl that used to make her knees buckle. “You ungrateful little bitch! After everything I gave you! After everything I did for your pathetic family!”
He lunged forward, his fingers clawing for her wrist.
Before his fingers could even graze her coat, a black SUV pulled violently against the curb with a screech of brakes.
The passenger door flew open. Marco didn't even draw a weapon; he simply stepped between them like an iron wall, catching Derek by the throat and slamming him backward against the stone pillar of the bank building.
A second later, Alexander Moretti stepped out of the back seat.
The LaSalle Street crowd stopped. People whispered, averting their eyes as Alexander walked slowly across the sidewalk, his long cashmere coat fluttering in the autumn wind.
He stopped two inches from Derek, who was wheezing, pinned against the granite by Marco’s forearm.
“I gave you instructions two weeks ago, Carter,” Alexander said softly.
Derek’s eyes bulged with terror. “Moretti... please... she’s my wife—”
“She was your wife,” Alexander corrected, his voice as smooth and terrifying as ice cracking over deep water. “Now she is someone under my protection. And in Chicago, you don't touch what belongs under my watch.”
Alexander glanced at Emily. His eyes softened for a fraction of a second, checking her from head to toe to ensure she hadn't been touched.
“Are you alright?” he asked her.
“I’m fine,” Emily said, her voice clear and completely steady.
Alexander nodded, then turned back to Derek. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, folded piece of paper.
“Your bail bondsman revoked your guarantee twenty minutes ago,” Alexander whispered into Derek’s ear. “They discovered that the collateral you provided was tied to an asset already frozen by the federal receiver. In about thirty seconds, two Chicago police cruisers are going to round that corner to take you back to the Metropolitan Correctional Center.”
The wail of sirens echoed down the concrete canyon of LaSalle Street, growing louder with every heartbeat.
May you like
Alexander signaled to Marco. Marco released his grip, and Derek collapsed onto the pavement like a sack of wet flour, clutching his throat, sobbing with absolute ruin.
Alexander turned his back on him and offered Emily his arm.
