Chapter 3 - The Hunt Begins
By 3:30 AM, the Moretti estate had transformed into an active war room.
Dozens of black sedans lined the circular driveway, their tires grinding against the wet gravel. Armed men in tactical gear flanked the perimeter, while forensic tech analysts sat around Aaron’s pristine dining table, tapping furiously into traffic camera feeds, toll booths, and cellular tower pings.
Roman stood at the head of the table. He hadn't changed out of his suit, but his tie was ripped off, his top three shirt buttons torn open, and his eyes were bloodshot, glowing with a dangerous, feral madness.
"How does a woman who had a C-section six days ago walk out of a guarded compound with an infant?" Roman roared, slamming both palms down on the mahogany table with enough force to rattle the crystal chandelier overhead.
The room went dead silent. Marcus, a veteran bodyguard who had taken two bullets for Roman's father, stepped forward, his eyes downcast.
"The basement laundry exit, boss. It sits in a fifteen-degree dead zone between Tower Two and the western tree line. The motion sensor was looped for an eight-minute window at 11:18 PM. Whoever did this had our architectural blueprints and our security protocols."
"Silas Cole," Roman spat, the name tasting like poison on his tongue.
He remembered Silas. The old fox who had served Aaron's father like a bloodhound. Roman had tried to buy Silas’s loyalty three years ago; Silas had simply looked at him with disdain and retired.
"Find Silas Cole's house in Racine," Roman ordered, his voice dropping into a register that made his lieutenants step back. "Burn the door off its hinges. If he's there, bring him to me alive. If he isn't, I want his bank records, his license plates, and every property he’s paid taxes on since 1995."
"We're already on it, Mr. Moretti," the lead tech specialist said nervously. "Her phone was destroyed on site. She hasn't swiped a credit card. No activity under her Social Security number. She's completely off-grid."
Roman turned away from his men, walking back toward the quiet expanse of the kitchen.
On the counter lay the crumpled transcript of the voicemail.
He smoothed it out with shaking hands, reading the words again.
*“Order another bottle. I’m handling it.”*
God, what had he done?
He remembered the dinner at the private supper club. Laya had draped herself across him, plying him with vintage bourbon, murmuring about business mergers and political influence. He had felt trapped, irritated by her brazen flirting, but unwilling to make a scene that might fracture their multi-million-dollar distribution pact. When she had grabbed his phone under the pretext of taking a photo, he had snatched it back, snapped at her to order another drink, and walked outside to take a business call.
Laya had recorded that voicemail intentionally. She had staged the audio, using his distracted words to construct an airtight illusion of an adulterous overnight tryst.
And she had delivered the bomb straight to Aaron’s postpartum hands.
Roman didn't wait for his driver. He grabbed his keys, stormed out to his SUV, and tore out of the estate gates, running every red light on Lincoln Memorial Drive until he reached the high-rise glass tower where Laya Crane owned the top-floor penthouse.
He didn't bother using the buzzer. He bypassed the concierge with a cold, murderous glare that sent the young man scrambling into the breakroom, took the private elevator to the thirty-second floor, and kicked the double oak doors off their latch with a sickening splinter of wood.
Laya screamed, leaping up from her white velvet sofa, clutching a silk robe to her chest.
"Roman! What is wrong with you? You can't just—"
Roman crossed the room in three strides. He didn't touch her—he had never laid a hand on a woman in his life—but he leaned over her with such sheer, volcanic hatred that Laya fell backward onto the cushions, trembling.
"You sent that voicemail," Roman whispered, his teeth bared.
Laya blinked, a flash of smugness crossing her features before she smoothed it over with false innocence. "Roman, she was going to find out eventually that we belong together. Aaron is a boring, domestic little mouse. She doesn't understand your world! She’s holding you back, and now she’s sulking because—"
"She took Sophie," Roman interrupted, the words dropping like lead weights into the room.
Laya paused, her painted lips parting. "What?"
"My wife. Took my daughter. And disappeared." Roman leaned in closer, his voice vibrating with absolute malice. "If anything happens to my baby out there in the cold... if Aaron suffers a single medical complication because you decided to play your sociopathic games... there is nowhere on this earth your father can hide you from me."
Laya’s face lost all its color. "Roman, I... I just wanted her to leave! I wanted you to see that you didn't need to be shackled to her!"
"You listen to me, Laya," Roman said, his voice deadly quiet. "You will never step foot near my businesses again. The Crane contracts are cancelled as of five minutes ago. If I ever see your face within fifty feet of my family, you will learn why people fear my last name. Do you understand me?"
He didn't wait for her answer. He turned on his heel and strode out of the penthouse.
Back in the elevator, Roman leaned his forehead against the cool mirrored wall. The rage that had carried him here evaporated, leaving only a hollow, cavernous grief.
Aaron was out there. In the rain. In the freezing dark. Healing from major surgery, nursing their baby alone in the shadows, believing with every fiber of her broken heart that her husband had tossed her aside like garbage.
"Where are you, Aaron?" he whispered into the empty elevator, closing his eyes against the stinging tears. "Please... just let me find you."
***
Six hundred miles north, the rain had turned into heavy, silent snow.
The utility van bumped along an unpaved gravel trail deep within the dense pine forests of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. The trees stood like ancient white sentinels, blanketing the world in muffled silence.
Silas pulled the van behind a modest, cedar-shingled cabin tucked against the edge of a frozen lake. The windows were dark, protected by thick wooden storm shutters. A fieldstone chimney stood proudly against the winter sky.
"We’re here," Silas said, killing the engine.
I looked down at the bundle against my chest. Sophie was fast asleep, her tiny lips parted, completely oblivious to the fact that her entire world had been uprooted in a single night.
My lower abdomen burned with a sharp, pulling ache. My feet were swollen, and exhaustion clung to my limbs like wet wool. But as Silas helped me down from the passenger seat and guided me up the wooden porch steps into the warm, dry shelter of the cabin, I felt something I hadn't felt in months.
Peace.
The cabin was fully stocked: a wood-burning stove, stacks of seasoned oak, clean drinking water, and enough non-perishable food to last through spring. Silas lit the stove, and within minutes, the crackle of burning birch filled the cozy room with comforting warmth.
I set up Sophie’s portable bassinet beside the fire, laying her down gently.
"Roman will turn the country inside out, Aaron," Silas warned quietly, handing me a mug of hot broth. "His intelligence network reaches deep into Chicago, Detroit, and Minneapolis. We have to keep low profile. No electricity, no radio beacons, no contact with the outside world."
"Let him search," I said softly, my fingers grazing Sophie’s soft cheek. "He chose Laya Crane. Now he can live with her in that empty house."
I looked out the frosted window into the endless expanse of pine and snow.
May you like
For the first time in six days, I didn't check the clock.
***
