Chapter 8 - The Second Fire
The abandoned glass warehouse smelled like rust and old rain.
Alexander entered alone.
At least, that was what Matteo was supposed to believe.
A microphone was taped beneath Alexander’s shirt.
Two federal teams waited beyond the perimeter.
Rafe watched from a surveillance vehicle.
Four agents covered the river exit.
No Moretti soldiers.
No private army.
No revenge squad.
Alexander carried a metal case containing copies of the trust documents.
The real documents had been placed in federal custody hours earlier.
Matteo stood beneath a broken overhead light.
He looked terrible.
Unshaven.
Thinner.
A bruise across his jaw.
“Cousin.”
Alexander stopped twenty feet away.
“Matteo.”
“You brought it?”
Alexander lifted the case.
“You brought Vittorio?”
Matteo laughed.
“You think you still give orders.”
“I think your father is using you.”
The laugh stopped.
“Careful.”
“Olivia talked.”
Matteo’s face twitched.
“Olivia always talks too much.”
“She told me you knew about Daniel.”
For the first time, Matteo looked genuinely uncomfortable.
Alexander’s rage rose.
He remembered Claire’s warning.
Follow the plan.
He kept his hands at his sides.
“Did you know?” he asked.
Matteo glanced toward the dark upper level.
That glance was enough.
Vittorio was inside.
Alexander continued.
“Your father ordered the ambush.”
Matteo shrugged.
“He wanted you removed.”
“Daniel died.”
“That was unfortunate.”
The word almost destroyed the plan.
Unfortunate.
Daniel had bled to death in Alexander’s arms.
Olivia’s entire life had bent around that night.
Alexander took one step forward.
In the surveillance van, Rafe muttered, “Don’t.”
Alexander stopped.
Matteo smiled.
“There he is.”
Alexander said nothing.
“The real Alexander. I was starting to think Claire cut your spine out.”
Alexander’s face remained blank.
Matteo walked closer.
“You know what your problem is?”
“I assume you’re going to tell me.”
“You always wanted to be better than us.”
“Us?”
“The family.”
Alexander almost laughed.
“We murder women in burning rooms now?”
Matteo’s eyes hardened.
“That was Olivia.”
“You designed the lock.”
“She pushed the button.”
“You delayed the sprinklers.”
“She wanted Claire gone.”
“And you wanted the evidence gone.”
Matteo’s silence was confirmation.
Alexander took another step.
“You knew Claire was in that room.”
“Yes.”
“You knew she could die.”
“Yes.”
“You sent men after her in Canada.”
“Yes.”
The word came with pride.
In the surveillance van, agents exchanged looks.
Confession.
Recorded.
Matteo continued.
“And I’d do it again.”
Alexander’s fists tightened.
“Why?”
“Because you became weak.”
“Because I got married?”
“Because you started caring what one woman thought.”
Matteo laughed.
“Then she got pregnant. Suddenly Carlo’s ridiculous trust became permanent.”
“You tried to kill a child for voting shares.”
“No. I tried to prevent a future problem.”
Alexander stared at him.
For years, men had called Alexander Moretti ruthless.
Standing there, he understood the difference between ruthlessness and emptiness.
Matteo had become empty.
A voice came from the upper level.
“And you became sentimental.”
Alexander looked up.
Vittorio emerged from the shadows.
His uncle moved slowly but without weakness.
A pistol rested in his hand.
He pointed it toward Alexander.
“Hello, nephew.”
“Vittorio.”
“Your father would be ashamed.”
Alexander’s mouth hardened.
“My father trusted you.”
“Your father stole from me.”
“He inherited.”
“He controlled.”
Vittorio descended the metal stairs.
Matteo watched him warily.
Something about the look between father and son was wrong.
Alexander noticed.
“So this was your plan?” Alexander asked. “Destroy the companies and sell the pieces?”
Vittorio smiled.
“Carlo built a monument to himself. I intended to turn it into cash.”
“And Matteo?”
Matteo’s head turned.
Vittorio did not look at him.
Alexander understood.
“Disposable.”
Matteo’s expression changed.
“Dad.”
Vittorio sighed.
“You were always too emotional.”
Matteo stepped back.
“You said I would control the board.”
“You could barely control Olivia.”
The insult landed.
Matteo looked at Alexander.
Then at his father.
The structure of the conspiracy cracked in real time.
Alexander could almost see years of manipulation collapsing.
“You knew he would fail,” Alexander said.
Vittorio smiled.
“I knew one of you would kill the other.”
Matteo’s face went white.
“And then?” Alexander asked.
“Then federal pressure would finish what remained.”
Vittorio raised the gun slightly.
“You Moretti boys always confuse inheritance with destiny.”
Alexander heard Rafe in his earpiece.
Hold.
Agents were moving.
Vittorio noticed the tiny shift in Alexander’s eyes.
His smile disappeared.
“You’re wired.”
Matteo turned.
“What?”
Vittorio fired.
Not at Alexander.
At Matteo.
The bullet hit his son in the side.
Matteo crashed to the floor.
Alexander lunged behind a steel support as a second shot tore through the air.
Federal agents shouted outside.
Vittorio fired toward the entrance.
Then the warehouse lights died.
Darkness.
An explosion sounded near the rear wall.
Flames rolled upward.
Alexander’s blood turned cold.
Fire.
Again.
Smoke moved across the ceiling.
For half a second, he was back in the mansion.
Claire screaming.
Olivia in his arms.
A locked door.
A choice.
Then Matteo groaned nearby.
Alexander looked toward the rear exit.
Vittorio was running.
He could chase him.
End it.
The old Alexander would have.
He would have followed Vittorio through flames and bullets until one of them died.
Matteo coughed.
“Help.”
Alexander looked at the man who had tried to kill his wife.
The man who had sent an attacker into Claire’s home.
The man who had ordered the truck that nearly killed Grace before she was born.
“Alexander.”
Matteo’s voice was weaker.
Fire spread across spilled solvent.
The roof creaked.
Alexander had seconds.
He heard Claire.
Do not turn this into revenge.
He ran toward Matteo.
Matteo stared up at him in disbelief.
“You’re saving me?”
“Don’t make me regret it.”
Alexander dragged him behind a support beam.
A federal agent appeared through the smoke.
“Exit is blocked!”
“South wall!”
“Fire there too!”
The ceiling dropped behind them.
Glass shattered.
Matteo screamed as Alexander pulled him upright.
His blood soaked Alexander’s sleeve.
Another agent grabbed Matteo’s other arm.
Together, they moved.
A steel door appeared through smoke.
Locked.
Alexander almost laughed at the cruelty of it.
Another locked door.
Another fire.
Another person depending on him.
This time, he did not promise to come back.
He stayed.
“Back up!”
An agent fired two rounds into the lock.
Nothing.
Alexander grabbed a broken steel bar.
He drove it between the door and frame.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
The metal bent.
Smoke filled his lungs.
His eyes watered.
Matteo sagged.
“Leave me.”
Alexander kept pulling.
“Shut up.”
“You hate me.”
“Yes.”
“Then go.”
Alexander thought of Claire behind the bedroom door.
He pulled again.
The frame cracked.
“I am not leaving anyone in a fire.”
The door burst outward.
Cold night air hit them.
Agents dragged Matteo through.
Alexander stumbled outside seconds before part of the roof collapsed.
Rafe reached him.
“Vittorio?”
“Got out the rear.”
Rafe swore.
Alexander coughed.
“Matteo alive?”
“Barely.”
“Keep him alive.”
Rafe stared at him.
“You pulled him out?”
“Yes.”
“The man who tried to kill your wife?”
Alexander looked back at the burning warehouse.
“My wife taught me something about doors.”
Rafe did not ask.
Vittorio made it six miles.
Police stopped his car on the Dan Ryan after federal agents boxed him between two unmarked vehicles.
He reached for a weapon.
He did not get to use it.
At 1:17 a.m., Vittorio Moretti was taken into custody.
At 1:31, Matteo entered surgery under guard.
At 2:04, Alexander called my father.
I was awake when Dad came into my hospital room.
Grace had been discharged from the NICU that afternoon but remained with me for observation one more night.
My father looked tired.
“What?”
“Vittorio is in custody.”
I sat up.
“Matteo?”
“Shot.”
“By Alexander?”
“No. By Vittorio.”
I closed my eyes.
“And Alexander?”
Dad hesitated.
My stomach dropped.
“Dad.”
“He’s alive.”
I breathed again.
“He has mild smoke inhalation.”
The room disappeared.
Smoke inhalation.
Fire.
“No.”
“He’s okay.”
“Where is he?”
“Being checked at a hospital in Chicago.”
I looked at Grace asleep in the bassinet.
“What happened?”
My father told me.
The warehouse.
Vittorio.
The fire.
Matteo trapped.
Alexander going back.
I stared at him.
“He saved Matteo?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Apparently because Matteo was alive.”
I almost laughed.
That sounded so unlike the Alexander I had left.
My father sat beside me.
“He had a clean path to the rear exit.”
“What?”
“Rafe told me. Alexander could have chased Vittorio. Instead he dragged Matteo out.”
I looked down at my hands.
The fire had taken something from me.
Maybe the second fire had taken something from Alexander too.
Something he needed to lose.
The belief that deciding who deserved saving was his right.
He called the next morning.
His voice was rough.
“Claire.”
“You sound terrible.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“Are you in the hospital?”
“Leaving now.”
“You inhaled smoke.”
“A small amount.”
“Doctors love when patients describe medical problems as small.”
He was quiet.
Then I asked, “Why did you save Matteo?”
A long pause.
“He was there.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I have.”
“He tried to kill me.”
“I know.”
“He nearly killed Grace.”
“I know.”
“And you saved him.”
“Yes.”
I swallowed.
“Would you have saved him if the government didn’t need him alive?”
Alexander thought about it.
“I want to tell you yes.”
“But?”
“I don’t know.”
The answer was painfully honest.
He continued.
“The man I was before the first fire would have left him.”
I closed my eyes.
“What about the man you are now?”
“He pulled the door open.”
Tears filled my eyes.
“You remembered.”
“Every second.”
Neither of us spoke.
Then I heard a nurse in Chicago tell him he needed to sit down.
I almost smiled.
“Go home, Alexander.”
“I don’t have one.”
My chest hurt.
The mansion had been condemned after the fire.
He had been living in a hotel.
I realized I had never asked.
“Then go to your hotel.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And get your lungs checked again.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And stop saying yes, ma’am like you think it’s charming.”
A pause.
“I don’t think it’s charming.”
“You do.”
“I think you sound beautiful when you’re annoyed.”
My heart stumbled.
“Goodbye, Alexander.”
“Claire?”
I waited.
“Grace comes home today?”
“Yes.”
“I’m glad.”
I looked at our daughter.
“So am I.”
I ended the call.
That afternoon, Grace Bennett left the hospital.
No black convoy.
No Moretti guards at the door.
Just me, my parents, Rafe at a distance, and a tiny baby in a car seat.
Before we drove away, I received a photograph.
Alexander.
Sitting on the steps outside a Chicago hospital.
A bandage on his hand.
No expensive suit.
No entourage.
Just a man looking exhausted.
Rafe had sent it accidentally to our security group.
Beneath the photo, Alexander had typed to him:
Do not send this to Claire.
May you like
I stared at it for a long time.
Then I saved it.
