Chapter 5 - THE DESPERATE TITAN
(Word Count: ~1,500 words)
A month after being removed from Moretti Global, Lucian Moretti was a ghost haunting his own life.
He sat in the dim, unlit living room of the Manhattan penthouse, surrounded by empty crystal scotch decanters and takeout boxes. The pristine home that Serena had decorated was quiet, smelling stale and neglected.
Without Serena to manage the public relations and legal cleanups, the news of Lucian’s abrupt removal from the board had leaked to the financial press. The Wall Street Journal had run a front-page article: "MORETTI GLOBAL OUSTS FOUNDER AMID FORENSIC AUDIT."
His legitimate business partners were pulling out of contracts. His overseas shipping routes were frozen by court injunctions. And worse, his shady dock associates in Brooklyn were beginning to question his strength. In their world, a man who couldn't control his own wife was a man who couldn't protect their shipments.
At 2:00 AM, a keycard beeped at the penthouse front door.
Bianca Romano stepped into the foyer, wearing a crimson silk dress and a fur coat, carrying a designer overnight bag.
“Lucian?” Bianca called out, her voice melodious and light as her heels clicked across the marble floor. “Darling? Why are all the lights off?”
Lucian didn't move from his armchair in the dark corner of the living room. He swirled the amber liquid in his glass, staring at her with hollow, bloodshot eyes.
Bianca walked over, setting her bag down, a pout on her beautiful young face. “I’ve been calling you for three days, Lucian. Your lieutenant said you were staying here. Why aren't you answering my texts? We were supposed to go to Paris this weekend.”
Lucian set his glass down on the side table with a heavy, dangerous snap.
“Get out,” he said, his voice low and raspy.
Bianca blinked, taken aback. “What?”
“Get your things and get out of my house, Bianca,” Lucian repeated, turning his dark gaze onto her.
Bianca’s expression turned from playful to offended. She stepped closer, crossing her arms. “Lucian, don't take your frustration out on me! It’s not my fault your boring, nagging wife stole your company! She’s just using that baby to manipulate you—”
Before Bianca could finish the sentence, Lucian stood up so fast the heavy leather armchair slid backward.
He moved across the room with terrifying, predatory speed, stopping inches from Bianca’s face. The raw, violent aura he usually reserved for dock syndicates radiated from him, making Bianca gasp and take an instinctual step back in fear.
“Do not speak her name,” Lucian whispered, his teeth clenched, his eyes burning with pure hatred. “Do not ever speak about my wife or my son again.”
“Lucian... you’re hurting my arm—” Bianca whimpered as his hand clamped like a steel vise around her wrist.
“I ruined my life for a cheap, shallow girl who doesn't possess one percent of the grace my wife has in her little finger,” Lucian hissed, his voice shaking with self-loathing. “I looked at you in Capri, and I lost the only thing that ever truly mattered to me.”
He shoved her hand away, stepping back toward the dark window.
“Take whatever money is left in the Italian account,” Lucian spat without looking at her. “And if I ever see your face in New York again, I will make sure your father’s shipping license in Milan is revoked by morning. Get out.”
Bianca stared at him in utter shock and terror, realizing he meant every word. She grabbed her designer bag, turned on her high heels, and fled the penthouse, her crying echoing down the hallway as the door slammed shut.
Lucian stood alone in the dark living room, staring out at the rain-slicked city streets below.
He didn't care about Bianca. He didn't care about the lost millions in Naples. He didn't even care about the board meeting. The only thing looping endlessly in his mind, like a torturous melody, was the memory of a quiet hospital room in Mercy General, and the sound of his wife saying: You looked at your mistress and said, ‘Not yet.’
He pulled his phone from his pocket. His hands were shaking violently.
He didn't call his lawyers. He didn't call his security team.
He dialed Marco.
“Marco,” Lucian rasped into the receiver.
“Lucian?” Marco sounded surprised. “It’s two in the morning. Are you alright?”
“Find out where she’s keeping my son,” Lucian ordered, his voice raw. “I don't care what security company she hired. I don't care how many lawyers are standing outside the door. Find out the address of the house in Brooklyn.”
“Lucian, please,” Marco warned nervously over the phone. “Mrs. Moretti has a court-issued restraining order. If you go near her house, the police will arrest you immediately. It will destroy any chance you have in family court next month.”
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“I don't care about the family court!” Lucian shouted into the phone, tears finally breaking past his composure and streaming down his face. “I am dying, Marco! I am dying in this empty house! I need to see my boy! Find the address!”
He hung up the phone, collapsing onto his knees on the cold marble floor of the foyer, pressing his forehead against the ground, weeping silently into the dark.
