Chapter 2 - The Men Who Came for the Wife He Failed to ProtectThe first blow shattered the driver's window.
Glass exploded across my lap.
I turned my face away, throwing one arm over my stomach as tiny fragments struck my cheek.
Cold air and rain rushed into the car.
The taller man reached through the broken window and grabbed my coat.
"Unlock the door."
I tried to pull away.
He tightened his grip.
"Don't make me drag you out."
I could barely hear him over the ringing in my ears.
My chest hurt from the collision.
My left shoulder throbbed.
And beneath all of that pain was one terrifying thought.
I hadn't felt my daughter move.
I had learned she was a girl three weeks earlier.
Dante had wanted the announcement to be private, so we sat in a darkened examination room while the ultrasound technician turned the monitor toward us.
When she told us we were having a daughter, Dante had covered his mouth with one hand.
For a moment, he looked like the man I remembered.
He bent toward my stomach and whispered, "Hello, sweetheart."
I had watched tears gather in his eyes.
That memory came back to me as a stranger reached through the window and tried to pull me from my father's car.
Not my husband's money.
Not his reputation.
Not his powerful family.
Just that single moment when he had spoken to our daughter as though she were already the most important person in his world.
"Please," I begged the stranger. "I'm pregnant."
"I know."
Those two words frightened me more than the shattered window.
The man knew exactly who I was.
He knew I was pregnant.
And he didn't care.
He released my coat long enough to reach for the interior door handle.
I seized the opportunity.
I slammed my elbow against his forearm, twisted the key in the ignition, and prayed.
The engine coughed.
Once.
Twice.
Then caught.
The man swore.
I shoved the transmission into reverse.
The sedan lurched backward, dragging his arm against the window frame.
He pulled free with a shout.
I accelerated.
The rear bumper struck the guardrail.
The steering wheel fought my grip.
Then the car swung sideways, leaving just enough space between the SUV and the shoulder.
I put it into drive.
The man jumped away.
My tires spun on the wet pavement.
For one breathless second, nothing happened.
Then the sedan surged forward.
I heard someone shout.
A sharp crack sounded behind me.
The rear windshield fractured.
They were shooting.
I ducked instinctively and nearly lost control.
My father's old car had never moved so fast.
The headlights shook over the narrow road.
I couldn't tell whether the strange vibration beneath the floor came from the damaged wheel or my own trembling hands.
The SUV's headlights reappeared behind me.
I passed a closed seafood restaurant.
A deserted gas station.
A dark row of winter rental cottages.
I searched desperately for another car.
Another person.
Anything.
Then I saw a yellow flashing light ahead.
A municipal maintenance truck was pulling onto the road from a small service entrance.
It had a broad plow attachment and reflective warning stripes.
I leaned on the horn.
The truck slowed.
I flashed my headlights repeatedly.
The SUV behind me eased back.
I stopped beside the maintenance truck so abruptly that the sedan stalled again.
A heavyset man in an orange jacket rolled down his window.
"Lady, what the hell—"
"They're trying to kill me!"
His expression changed.
I pointed toward the SUV.
"Please call the police. I'm pregnant. They hit my car."
The maintenance driver grabbed his radio.
The SUV stopped several hundred feet behind us.
For a terrible moment, I expected its occupants to approach anyway.
Instead, it reversed toward a narrow side road.
Then disappeared.
The driver climbed out of his truck.
He looked at my shattered windows, bleeding cheek, and swollen stomach.
"Jesus Christ."
"My baby," I whispered.
He took off his jacket and wrapped it around my shoulders.
"What's your name?"
"Elena."
"Elena, I'm Paul. Emergency services are coming."
I wanted to believe him.
I wanted to believe the police would arrive, the hospital would examine my daughter, and every terrible thing would somehow become manageable.
But then Paul looked toward the road where the SUV had vanished.
"Did you recognize those guys?"
"No."
"Did they say anything?"
I swallowed.
"They wanted documents."
"What documents?"
I hesitated.
My husband had spent months warning me that certain people were dangerous.
Now I understood that danger could wear expensive clothes, drive black SUVs, and know exactly when a pregnant woman would be alone.
"Shipping records," I said.
Paul frowned.
"Shipping records?"
I nodded.
He looked at my car again.
"Then we're not leaving anything to chance."
He helped me into the passenger seat of his truck and locked the doors.
He spoke to emergency dispatch over the radio, giving our position and describing the attackers.
I kept one hand pressed against my stomach.
"Come on, sweetheart," I whispered. "Move for Mommy."
Nothing.
Then my phone began ringing inside the damaged sedan.
Paul glanced at me.
"Is that yours?"
I nodded.
He asked whether someone should retrieve it.
I thought of Dante.
His name had appeared on the screen seconds before the window shattered.
I wondered whether he was calling to apologize.
Or to order me home.
Or because he already knew what had happened.
"Leave it," I said.
Paul didn't argue.
He waited beside me until the ambulance arrived.
When the paramedics lifted me onto the stretcher, I finally began shaking uncontrollably.
One woman checked my pulse and asked how far along I was.
"Twenty-six weeks."
"Any abdominal pain?"
"Some. My chest hit the steering wheel."
"Any bleeding?"
"No."
She placed a hand on my shoulder.
"We're going to take good care of you."
I wanted to ask whether my baby was alive.
I couldn't force the words out.
Instead, I closed my eyes and cried.
Back at the Moretti estate, Dante stood in his study holding my wedding ring.
He had been staring at it for eleven minutes.
At first, he was angry.
Angry that I had gone through his desk.
Angry that I had ignored the danger surrounding our family.
Angry that I had driven away in an unreliable car during a winter storm.
But beneath his anger was something he hadn't expected.
Fear.
Not the familiar kind that came with business threats.
Not the calculating fear he felt when a rival organization made an unexpected move.
This was different.
It had no strategy.
No clear opponent.
No one he could intimidate into making it disappear.
His wife had looked him in the eyes and handed back the symbol of their marriage.
And for the first time, Dante Moretti understood that loving someone didn't guarantee they would remain.
He tried calling me.
No answer.
He called again.
Still nothing.
Bianca entered the study carrying a glass of whiskey.
"She probably needs time."
Dante didn't look at her.
"Get out."
Bianca stopped.
"Excuse me?"
"Go home."
"I came because you said we needed to discuss the accounts."
"Not tonight."
She placed the glass on his desk.
"Dante, I know this is difficult, but Elena has been emotionally unstable for weeks."
His eyes lifted.
"What did you say?"
Bianca smiled gently.
"Her pregnancy has obviously affected her judgment."
Dante remembered my face when he had accused me of being overwhelmed.
He remembered how I had flinched when he struck the desk.
And then he remembered Bianca standing in the rain, holding his missing cufflinks.
"Where did you get those?"
Bianca glanced down.
"Get what?"
"The cufflinks."
Her smile faltered.
"You left them in my car."
"No, I didn't."
She looked genuinely startled.
Dante stood.
"Those cufflinks disappeared from my bedroom three months ago."
"Perhaps you forgot."
"I haven't been inside your car in six months."
For the first time that evening, Bianca had no immediate answer.
Dante stepped around the desk.
"Why were you at my house?"
"You asked me to come."
"I told you to send me the updated figures in the morning."
She swallowed.
"I thought it would be better to discuss them personally."
"At midnight?"
"Dante—"
"Who told you Elena was leaving?"
Bianca's gaze flickered toward the doorway.
"No one."
He watched her closely.
The woman he had trusted with complicated estate accounts suddenly looked less like a useful business associate and more like someone searching for an exit.
Then his phone rang.
His head of security, Marco Bellini.
"Boss."
"Tell me Elena's location."
A pause.
"We lost her vehicle."
Dante went still.
"What?"
"The sedan left the property at eleven forty-two. The assigned security car couldn't maintain visual contact."
"Assigned security car?"
"Standard protocol."
"I didn't authorize anyone to follow her."
Another pause.
Dante felt the cold spreading through his chest.
"Marco."
"Yes, boss?"
"Where is my wife?"
"We're trying to locate her."
Dante looked at Bianca.
She had gone pale.
He ended the call.
Then immediately dialed another number.
Frank Russo answered on the second ring.
Frank was sixty-two, had worked for Dante's father, and was one of the few men in the organization who could tell Dante he was wrong without losing his job.
"Frank. Find Elena. Use your own people. Nobody from Marco's team."
Frank heard something in his voice.
"What's happened?"
"She's gone."
"Did she leave voluntarily?"
Dante looked at the ring.
"Yes."
"Then why do you sound like someone's dead?"
Dante closed his fist around the platinum band.
"Because Marco says a security car followed her, and I never sent one."
Frank became silent.
Then he said, "I'll find her."
Bianca moved toward the door.
"Perhaps I should go."
Dante looked at her.
"Sit down."
Her expression froze.
"I'm not one of your employees."
"No," he replied. "You're someone who just lied to me."
He walked to the security monitor behind his desk and accessed the estate's gate footage.
The recording showed Bianca arriving.
Getting out.
Speaking to me.
Opening the velvet box.
Then, while Dante approached from the house, Bianca slipped her phone from her coat pocket.
Her fingers moved quickly.
She sent a message.
Dante replayed the footage.
Once.
Twice.
He turned slowly.
"Who were you texting?"
Bianca looked toward the monitor.
"My assistant."
"At eleven forty?"
"Yes."
"What did you tell her?"
"That I would be late."
Dante held out his hand.
"Give me your phone."
She stood.
"No."
He didn't raise his voice.
"Bianca."
"You have no right."
Dante moved toward her.
And suddenly she was no longer smiling.
At North Shore Medical Center, I lay on a hospital bed beneath fluorescent lights while an obstetrician moved an ultrasound probe across my abdomen.
My hospital gown felt cold against my skin.
A nurse named Sarah held my hand.
The doctor studied the monitor.
I couldn't bear the silence.
"Please tell me."
The doctor adjusted the probe.
Then a rapid, beautiful sound filled the room.
A heartbeat.
My daughter's heartbeat.
I sobbed.
"She's alive?"
"She has a heartbeat," the doctor said gently. "We're monitoring her carefully. After trauma like this, we need to watch for complications."
I covered my mouth.
Sarah squeezed my hand.
"That's a good sound, Elena."
I nodded through tears.
The doctor explained that my daughter was moving, although I might not feel everything because of my position and the stress of the accident.
There was no immediate evidence of placental separation on the initial examination, but that didn't eliminate all risks.
They wanted to monitor me overnight and repeat assessments if symptoms changed.
I agreed to everything.
Blood tests.
Continuous fetal monitoring.
A careful examination of my injuries.
I didn't care how long it took.
I wanted my daughter safe.
A police officer arrived forty minutes later.
His name was Detective Owen Mercer.
He looked to be in his early forties, with closely cropped hair and a serious expression.
He stood at the foot of my bed and introduced himself.
"Mrs. Moretti, I understand you were involved in an attempted abduction."
"Yes."
"Do you know why anyone would target you?"
I hesitated.
Then I explained the shipping documents.
His expression barely changed.
"Do you have copies?"
"Yes."
"On your phone?"
I nodded.
"Where is the phone?"
"In my car."
He wrote something in his notebook.
"I can arrange for it to be collected."
Something in his tone unsettled me.
"Could you tell me whether my car is secure?"
"We'll handle that."
"Who has access to it?"
"Mrs. Moretti, we have procedures."
His answer sounded too much like Dante's.
I looked at his badge.
Mercer.
The surname stirred a faint memory.
I couldn't place it.
He asked whether Dante knew I was at the hospital.
"No."
"Would you like us to contact him?"
"No."
Mercer studied me.
"Your husband has considerable resources. They could help."
"I said no."
He closed his notebook.
"All right. Rest."
As he turned away, his phone vibrated.
He glanced at the screen.
A message preview appeared.
I saw only four words.
Did she keep copies?
My breath caught.
Mercer immediately turned the phone facedown.
Then he looked at me.
For one terrible second, neither of us spoke.
He smiled.
"Try to get some sleep, Mrs. Moretti."
After he left, I pressed the call button.
Sarah returned.
"Everything okay?"
I shook my head.
"Can you please ask the charge nurse not to give anyone information about my room?"
"Of course."
"And can you call hospital security?"
She looked concerned.
"Is someone threatening you?"
I glanced toward the door.
"I think the man who just questioned me might be working for the people who attacked me."
Sarah's expression changed.
She didn't dismiss me.
She didn't tell me I was emotional.
She simply nodded.
"I'll notify security."
I almost cried again.
It had been so long since someone believed me without demanding an explanation first.
At the Moretti estate, Dante finally received a call from Frank.
"We found the sedan."
Dante closed his eyes.
"Where?"
"Coastal road outside Gloucester. Driver's window smashed. Rear windshield damaged. There's blood on the seat."
For a moment, Dante couldn't breathe.
"Elena?"
"She was taken by ambulance. She's alive."
Dante gripped the desk.
"The baby?"
"We don't know yet."
He turned toward the door.
"Get the car."
"Boss, listen carefully. Two men attacked her. A road worker witnessed part of it."
Dante stopped.
"Who?"
"We're still identifying them."
Frank lowered his voice.
"But there's something else."
"What?"
"One of Marco's security vehicles was seen leaving the area before emergency crews arrived."
Dante looked across the room.
Marco had just entered.
His security chief stood near the doorway, wearing a dark coat.
Bianca sat silently on the sofa.
Dante's gaze moved between them.
And suddenly the pattern became impossible to ignore.
The hotel photographs.
The false shipping document.
The missing cufflinks.
Bianca's unexplained arrival.
Marco's supposed security team.
My car being followed.
My disappearance from their surveillance.
All of it had happened while Dante was busy insisting that he understood the danger better than his wife.
He put his phone down.
"Marco."
"Boss?"
"Close the door."
Marco obeyed.
Dante looked at Bianca.
Then at the man who had controlled security around his home for nearly four years.
"One of you is going to tell me why my pregnant wife was attacked tonight."
Neither answered.
Dante reached into his pocket.
He took out my wedding ring and placed it on the desk.
The small sound of platinum touching wood seemed louder than the storm outside.
Then he said something neither of them had ever heard him say.
"And if Elena loses our daughter, I will spend the rest of my life knowing I helped put her in that car."
Marco's phone began vibrating.
He glanced down.
Dante saw the name illuminated on the screen.
OWEN MERCER.
And at that same moment, inside the hospital, Detective Mercer stepped into a deserted stairwell and made a call.
"She's alive," he said quietly. "But we have a problem."
A man's voice answered.
"What problem?"
"She recognized the manifest."
Mercer listened.
May you like
Then glanced toward the maternity wing.
"Yes. I'll make sure she doesn't leave with it."
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