Chapter 2 - The Ghosts of Boston
The private jet flight from Chicago to Boston felt like an eternity spent trapped inside my own head. Outside the oval window, clouds stretched across the dark night sky, but all I could see was the reflection of my own hardened face—and the crumpled photograph resting inside my leather jacket pocket. Two children. Two little lives created in the shadows of my ruthless empire, hidden away in a city I barely knew.
Marcus sat across from me in the leather armchair of the cabin, his laptop open, his fingers flying across the keyboard. He looked exhausted, but more than that, he looked wary. He had been with me through blood feuds with rival syndicates, through the cold-blooded consolidation of the Moretti family power, through federal indictments that would have broken lesser men. But he had never seen me like this. Unraveled. Unhinged.
“Talk to me, Marcus,” I growled, my voice cutting through the hum of the twin jet engines. “Who was the man on the phone?”
Marcus closed his laptop slightly, as if trying to cushion the blow of what he was about to say. “His name is Julian Vance. He’s thirty-eight. A prominent pediatric surgeon at Boston General Hospital. High society, clean background, old money, zero ties to the underworld.”
“And Evelyn married him?” The words tasted like ash on my tongue. The thought of another man touching Evelyn, kissing her, tucking my children into bed at night—it unleashed a primal, violent jealousy inside me that I hadn't felt in a decade.
“That’s where it gets complicated, Boss,” Marcus said softly. “According to municipal records, Evelyn Carter and Julian Vance filed for a marriage license eighteen months ago. But when my contact in Boston checked local tax records and property deeds... things didn't add up.”
“What doesn't add up?”
“Julian Vance owns a brownstone in Beacon Hill. It’s registered as his primary residence. But Evelyn isn't living there. She lives in a modest two-bedroom apartment in South Boston. Under her maiden name, Carter. The kids are registered under her name, too—Leo Carter and Maya Carter.”
I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees, locking my eyes onto Marcus. “If they’re married, why aren't they living together? Why aren't my kids using his name?”
“I don't know yet,” Marcus admitted. “Option one: it’s a marriage of convenience. Option two: Julian Vance is keeping her on a leash. Or option three... he’s hiding her.”
A cold knot tightened in my stomach. “Hiding her from who? Me?”
“Or from someone else,” Marcus replied ominously. “I looked into Julian Vance’s family. His father is Arthur Vance—a high-stakes hedge fund billionaire with massive political ties in New England. The Vances are ruthless in their own world, Adrian. They operate with lawyers and press releases instead of bullets, but they destroy people just the same. And word on the street in Boston high society is that Julian’s family did not approve of him associating with a divorced woman with no lineage.”
I scoffed, a dark, dangerous sound. “They don't approve of her? Evelyn is worth ten of any of those blue-blood bastards.”
“You didn't think that three years ago,” Marcus said quietly.
The sentence hung in the air like a physical blow. I flinched, but I didn't deny it. He was right. Three years ago, I was consumed by a brutal power struggle within the Chicago Outfit. My father had just died, my rivals were smelling blood in the water, and my mother, Victoria, was whispering in my ear every single day that vulnerability was death. I had treated my marriage like a business contract that was taking up too much of my valuable time.
I remembered the day Evelyn walked out. She hadn't screamed. She hadn't thrown things. She had simply packed one small suitcase, stood in the marble foyer of our Gold Coast mansion, and looked at me with eyes so full of grief it had terrified me.
“You built a fortress to keep the world out, Adrian,” she had told me, her voice trembling but steady. “But you forgot to build a home inside it. I am dying in here.”
I had signed the divorce papers two weeks later without fighting. I thought I was letting her go to protect her from my violent world. I thought I was being noble.
What a pathetic liar I was. I was just a coward who prioritized my empire over the woman who loved me.
“We’re landing in ten minutes, Boss,” the pilot announced over the intercom, breaking my spiral.
I pulled the photograph from my pocket once more. I traced the line of the little girl’s cheek—Maya. And then I looked at the little boy sitting beside her—Leo. He had Evelyn’s soft, expressive eyes, but his mouth was set in a tight, stubborn line that was entirely mine.
“Where is she right now?” I asked Marcus as the plane touched down on the tarmac at Logan International Airport.
“She works at a small floral design boutique in the South End,” Marcus said, handing me a slip of paper with an address. “She opens the shop at seven every morning before taking the kids to a local daycare.”
I checked my watch. It was 5:45 AM. The sky outside was a pale, icy blue as dawn broke over Boston.
“Cancel the hotel,” I ordered, sliding into the back of the black SUV that Marcus had arranged to meet us on the tarmac. “We’re going straight to the shop.”
“Adrian, wait,” Marcus warned, grabbing my forearm before I could shut the car door. “If you walk in there like a wrecking ball, you will scare her. You will scare those kids. You’ve been dead to her for three years. You can't just show up with an army and demand a family.”
I stared at Marcus’s hand on my arm until he slowly released his grip.
“I’m not bringing an army,” I said softly. “I’m going in alone.”
Thirty minutes later, the SUV pulled over along a quiet, tree-lined street in the South End. Traditional brick townhouses flanked the cobblestone sidewalks, and the autumn air smelled of crisp fallen leaves and ocean salt. It was so vastly different from the concrete and steel of my domain in Chicago. It was peaceful. It was human. It was the life Evelyn had always wanted.
At the corner of the block sat a cozy shop with dark green window frames and gold lettering on the glass: Bloom & Botanical.
Through the large glass display window, I saw her.
My heart hammered against my ribs like a caged beast.
Evelyn was standing behind a wooden counter, wrapping a bundle of eucalyptus and white roses with brown twine. She wore a simple cream-colored knit sweater, her long dark hair tied back in a loose, messy clip. She looked delicate, yet as I watched her move, there was a quiet strength in her posture that hadn't been there when she lived under my roof.
She looked up as the bell above the shop door chimed.
I stepped inside.
The scent of fresh soil, lilies, and rain instantly wrapped around me. The bell silenced. Evelyn turned toward the door with a warm, professional smile on her lips. “Good morning, welcome to—”
The words died in her throat.
The roll of brown wrapping paper slipped from her fingers, tumbling to the floor. The color drained completely from her face, leaving her skin as pale as the roses on her counter. She clutched the edge of the wooden table, her knuckles turning white.
“Adrian?” she whispered, as if seeing a ghost.
I stood there, six-foot-two in a bespoke Italian suit that felt entirely out of place in her quiet flower shop. For all my power, for all the men who trembled at the sound of my name across the Midwest, I couldn't form a single word.
“What... what are you doing here?” her voice cracked, panic instantly rising in her eyes. She instinctively stepped backward, putting the counter between us like a shield. “How did you find me?”
“Evelyn,” I managed to say, my voice raspy and broken. I took one step forward.
“Don't!” she snapped, pointing a trembling finger at me. “Don't come any closer. Leave, Adrian. Please. Just leave.”
“I can't,” I said quietly.
I reached into my pocket. Evelyn flinched, but I slowly pulled out the photograph Marcus had given me in Chicago. I laid it gently on the wooden counter between us.
Evelyn looked down. When she saw the image of herself pushing the double stroller along the Charles River, her breath caught in her throat. Tears instantly pooled in her dark eyes.
“You have my eyes, Evelyn,” I said, my voice shaking with an emotion I hadn't felt in thirty-nine years. “The little girl... she has my eyes.”
Evelyn closed her eyes tightly, a single tear spilling down her pale cheek. She placed her trembling hands over her face and let out a soft, heartbreaking sob.
“Why now?” she wept, looking up at me with a mixture of rage and agony. “It’s been three years, Adrian! You didn't care then! You didn't want me then! Why are you here now?!”
“Because I didn't know!” I stepped closer, slamming my hand against the counter, unable to contain the agony in my chest. “You walked away with my children, Evelyn! You left me without telling me I was going to be a father!”
“I tried to tell you!” Evelyn screamed, her voice echoing off the brick walls of the shop. “I begged you to come home! I begged you to come to the doctor! I sat in that cold apartment for three months throwing up, terrified, waiting for my husband to look at me for five minutes without checking his phone or dealing with his mob business! But you were never there!”
Her words struck me like bullets. Every single one hit its mark.
“The day I left,” she continued, tears streaming down her face, “I had the ultrasound photo in my purse. I was going to give it to you. But when I walked into your study, you were on the phone ordering a hit on someone in Detroit. You looked at me like I was an inconvenience. You told me to leave the room because you were doing 'real work.'”
She wiped her eyes furiously with the back of her sleeve, her shoulders shaking.
“So I left. I left because I realized that if my children grew up in your house, they would either end up dead or they would grow up to be cold, heartless monsters just like you.”
I felt as if my chest had been opened up and my heart ripped out. The truth was unbearable, but I couldn't deny a single word. I had built that monster. I had been that monster.
“Evelyn... I’m sorry,” I choked out. The words felt impossibly small compared to the mountain of damage I had caused. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
“It’s too late for sorry, Adrian,” she whispered, her voice dropping to a hollow, exhausted tone. “Go back to Chicago. Leave us alone.”
“I can't do that,” I said fiercely. “They are my children.”
“They don't know you!” she snapped. “They have a life here. A quiet life. A safe life.”
“With who?” I demanded, the memory of the phone call flashing through my mind. “With Julian Vance? The man who answered your phone and told me he was your husband? Is he raising my kids, Evelyn?!”
Evelyn froze. Her expression suddenly shifted from anger to sheer terror. The color didn't just leave her face this time—she looked like she was about to faint.
“You... you spoke to Julian?” she whispered in horror.
“Yes,” I said, stepping around the counter. She didn't move this time; she looked paralyzed with fear. “Who is he, Evelyn? What is going on?”
Before she could answer, the bell above the shop door chimed again.
A tall, polished man in a tailored grey suit walked into the shop. He had slicked-back blonde hair, a pristine leather briefcase, and an air of untouchable arrogance.
Julian Vance.
He looked at Evelyn, then shifted his gaze to me. His eyes narrowed as he recognized my face from whatever intelligence he possessed.
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“I told you not to call back, Moretti,” Julian said smoothly, locking the shop door behind him and flipping the sign to 'CLOSED'. “You’re trespassing. And you’re out of your depth.”
I turned to face him, my hands curling into fists, the cold killer inside me stirring awake. “You’re standing in my way, Vance. And that is a very dangerous place to be.”
