Chapter 7 - THE SHADOW OF HAROLD BENNETT
The following evening, Claire was working late in her office on the forty-fifth floor of the Moretti Tower.
The rain was beating rhythmically against the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, reflecting the sparkling grid below the Chicago skyline.
She was reviewing the quarterly budget reports when her desk phone rang.
She picked it up. “Claire Bennett.”
"Claire."
The voice was rough, raspy, wet with the sound of cheap cigarettes and heavy drinking.
Claire froze. The pen dropped from her fingers, rolling across the glass desk.
“Uncle Harold?” she whispered, her throat instantly dry.
“Well, well,” Harold Bennett shouted darkly through the receiver. “Look at you, big girl. I turn on the local news, and what do I see? My little niece sitting in a five-star restaurant with the Moretti family, wearing emeralds and driving sports cars.”
Claire's hand trembled as she gripped the phone. “How did you get this number?”
“I have my ways,” Harold grunted. “You know, Claire... I was reading about that trust fund. The five hundred thousand dollars from the Moretti family back in '04. Word on the street is, Vincent Moretti's private Investigators have been digging around my old repair shop in Indiana.”
Claire felt a cold sweat break out across her forehead. “You stole that money, Harold. It was meant for my recovery. You took it and left me with nothing.”
“I took care of you for three years after your parents kicked the bucket!” Harold snarled, his tone turning vicious. “I fed you! I put a roof over your head! That money was compensation for my trouble!”
“You starved me!” Claire shouted, her voice shaking with years of suppressed anger. “You locked me in the attic when your friends came over! You took every dime my mother left me!”
“Listen to me, you ungrateful little bitch,” Harold hissed into the phone. “I know things about that fire. Things the police never put in their official report. Things that would make Eleanor Moretti's heart stop if she knew the truth about why the doors on the fourth floor were chained shut that night.”
Claire's breath hitched. “What are you talking about?”
“I'm talking about five million dollars, Claire,” Harold said, his voice dropping into a sinister murmur. “You tell your billionaire boyfriend to transfer five million dollars into a Swiss account by Friday night, or I go to the newspapers with the real story of the Addison Street fire. I'll make sure the Moretti name is dragged through the dirt so deep they'll never recover.”
“Harold, don't do this—”
“Friday night, Claire!” Harold slammed the phone down, leaving a high-pitched dial tone buzzing in her ear.
Claire sat back in her leather chair, her heart hammering wildly, her mind spinning into a vortex of panic.
Was Harold telling the truth? Was the fire that had burnt her shoulder and nearly killed Lucia not an accident?
Before she could proceed the terror mounting in her chest, her office door opened softly.
Vincent walked in, carrying a dark wool coat over his arm. He looked tired, his necktie loosened, but the moment he saw Claire's pale face and trembling hands, his expression transformed into one of sharp, immediate alarm.
He crossed the room in three long strides, coming around her desk and kneeling beside her chair, grabbing her cold hands in his broad, warm palms.
“Claire,” Vincent said, his voice thick with concern. “What happened? You're shaking.”
“Harold,” she choked out, tears finally breaking past her eyelashes and spilling down her cheeks. “He... he just called me, Vincent.”
Vincent's eyes darkened into something terrifyingly absolute.
“What did he say?” Vincent asked softly, his tone deathly quiet.
Claire explained the call, her voice breaking as she recounted Harold's demand for five million dollars and his threat regarding the chained doors at the Addison Street building.
Vincent listened in complete silence. He didn't interrupt once. When she finished, he gently wiped her tears away with the pad of his thumb, his touch infinitely tender despite the storm raging behind his dark eyes.
“Claire,” Vincent said gently. “Look at me.”
She looked into his deep brown eyes, finding a rock-solid strength that instantly anchored her spiraling fear.
“Your uncle Harold didn't find this number on his own,” Vincent revealed quietly. “Vanessa Caldwell's father paid a private detective to track Harold down in Indiana two days ago. They thought they could use him to blackmail us.”
Claire's eyes broadened. “You knew?”
“My men have been tapping Harold's phone since yesterday morning,” Vincent confessed, kissing the back of her trembling hand. “We recorded the entire call. Harold Bennett isn't going to blackmail anyone, Claire. In forty-eight hours, he and Arthur Caldwell are going to be arrested by federal agents for extortion, arson conspiracy, and grand larceny.”
Claire stared at him in utter shock. “Arson conspiracy?”
Vincent's expression turned solemn. “The Addison Street fire wasn't an accident, Claire. Arthur Caldwell owned the building twenty years ago through a shell company. He chained the fire escapes to collect an insurance payout. Your uncle Harold helped him cover it up in exchange for the trust fund money.”
Claire covered her mouth, a gasp escaping her lips like the horrifying puzzle pieces finally clicked into place after twenty years.
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“They tried to kill those people for money...” she whispered.
“Yes,” Vincent said, standing up and pulling Claire up into his arms, wrapping his massive frame around her, holding her tightly against his chest. "But they failed because of you. And now, I am going to tear their entire world down."
