Chapter 7 - The Day Vincent Let Me Go
Five months later, Chicago looked nothing like Switzerland.
The lake was thawing.
Trees were beginning to green.
And my daughter kicked me every night at exactly eleven-thirty as if she had already developed opinions about bedtime.
I was thirty-one weeks pregnant.
Healthy.
Still married.
For one more hour.
The divorce hearing was scheduled for ten in the morning.
I stood in the women’s restroom of the Daley Center, staring at myself in the mirror while my lawyer, Rebecca Shaw, waited outside.
I wore a navy maternity dress, low heels, and no wedding ring.
I had not worn it since Aspen.
The ring remained with Vincent.
He once asked if I wanted it back.
I told him no.
He never asked again.
Carlo had been extradited to Illinois and charged in connection with Alessandro’s murder, conspiracy, racketeering, witness intimidation, and multiple financial crimes. Lucas’s records had opened investigations spanning four states and three countries.
Sophia entered federal witness protection after testifying before a grand jury.
Lucas remained in Chicago long enough to identify his parents’ belongings, then moved to Boston. He and Vincent spoke occasionally.
Awkwardly.
Carefully.
Like two men trying to build a bridge from opposite sides without pretending the canyon between them did not exist.
Daniel Riva remained missing.
That fact lived in the back of every room I entered.
I had security.
Not Moretti security.
My security.
Paid through an independent trust and managed by Rebecca’s firm.
Vincent had offered to cover the cost.
I refused at first.
Then Rebecca reminded me the threat existed because of his family.
So I accepted one condition: he had no access to schedules, camera feeds, or reports.
He agreed.
Since Switzerland, Vincent had changed his life with an intensity that once might have frightened me.
But this time, the changes were not aimed at getting me back.
He stepped down from three family companies.
He sold every nightclub and cash business tied to the old organization.
He gave federal prosecutors records they had spent years trying to obtain.
He entered therapy.
Actual therapy.
Twice a week.
The first time he told me, I thought he was joking.
Vincent Moretti did not joke about therapy.
He also accepted whatever legal consequences came from his cooperation.
So far, prosecutors had not charged him with violent crimes, but several financial investigations remained open. He knew prison was possible.
He still did it.
And now he was about to sign divorce papers without contesting a single clause.
Rebecca entered the restroom.
“You ready?”
“No.”
“Good. Anyone who says they’re ready for this is usually lying.”
I laughed weakly.
She squeezed my shoulder.
“You can change your mind.”
I looked at my reflection.
Could I?
Yes.
That was the difference now.
I could.
But I would not.
Forgiveness and marriage were not the same thing.
Love and safety were not the same thing.
I needed to know who I was when Vincent Moretti was not my husband.
“I’m ready enough,” I said.
The courtroom was nearly empty.
Vincent stood when I entered.
He wore a dark suit and no tie.
He looked at my stomach first.
Our daughter kicked as if she knew.
Then he looked at my face.
“Good morning.”
“Good morning.”
“Are you feeling okay?”
“Yes.”
He nodded.
That was it.
No last-minute plea.
No flowers.
No dramatic speech in the hallway.
The hearing lasted twenty-three minutes.
The judge reviewed the agreement.
I would retain my assets and independent residence.
We would share legal parenthood after the baby’s birth, but medical decisions during pregnancy remained mine alone.
Vincent had requested a gradual parenting schedule beginning with short visits, increasing only if I felt comfortable and the child’s pediatrician agreed.
Rebecca had stared at that clause when his lawyer first proposed it.
“He voluntarily asked for less?” she had said.
“Yes,” his attorney replied. “He said trust should not be presumed because of biology.”
The judge looked at Vincent.
“Mr. Moretti, do you understand that by not contesting this petition, the marriage will be legally dissolved today?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Is anyone coercing you?”
“No.”
“Do you wish to make any statement regarding reconciliation?”
My heart stopped.
Vincent looked at me.
For one second, I saw everything we had been.
The first restaurant where he made me laugh so hard I spilled wine.
Our wedding under white roses.
The nights he stayed awake beside me during fertility treatments.
The cable car.
The cold.
His coat around Sophia.
The ring in his palm.
The hospital room in Switzerland.
The man on the terrace learning to say he was afraid.
Vincent faced the judge.
“I love my wife.”
My eyes burned.
“But love does not entitle me to keep her married to me. I caused the end of this marriage. I will not use my feelings to make her carry that consequence longer than she chooses.”
The courtroom was completely silent.
The judge looked at me.
“Mrs. Moretti?”
I swallowed.
“I want the divorce.”
The words hurt.
But they were true.
The judge signed.
Just like that, I became Claire Bennett again.
Outside the courtroom, Vincent stood several feet away while Rebecca spoke with his attorney.
I touched my stomach.
“She’s kicking.”
His face softened instantly.
“Can I?”
I nodded.
He approached slowly and placed his hand where I guided it.
Our daughter kicked hard.
His eyes closed.
“Hi, baby girl.”
The tenderness in his voice nearly undid me.
Then he stepped back before I had to ask.
“Thank you,” he said.
“For what?”
“Letting me feel her.”
I looked at him.
“Vincent.”
“Yes?”
“I don’t hate you anymore.”
He went still.
“I’m not saying we’re getting back together.”
“I know.”
“I’m saying I don’t want our daughter growing up between two people who can only look at each other through what happened in Aspen.”
His eyes were wet.
“I want that too.”
We walked toward the elevators together.
For the first time in years, there was no legal bond between us.
And strangely, I felt safer beside him than I had when I wore his ring.
The elevator doors opened onto the lobby.
My security officer, Dana Cole, stepped forward.
“Ms. Bennett, car is ready.”
“Thank you.”
Vincent nodded to her but did not interfere.
We crossed the marble lobby.
Outside, reporters waited behind barricades because the Moretti case had become national news.
Cameras flashed.
Vincent moved automatically to my left, placing himself between me and the crowd.
I noticed.
But this time, he did not touch me.
We were halfway to the car when someone shouted his name.
“Moretti!”
Vincent turned.
A courier in a brown jacket stood near the barricade holding a padded envelope.
Something about his posture felt wrong.
Then I saw his face.
Older than the grainy pharmacy video.
Gray at the temples.
A scar near the chin.
Daniel Riva.
“Vincent!” I screamed.
Riva dropped the envelope.
His hand came up with a gun.
Everything happened at once.
Dana reached for me.
Police shouted.
Reporters scattered.
Vincent turned toward the weapon.
I saw the muzzle flash.
Then Vincent hit me hard from the side.
We fell behind a stone pillar.
A second shot cracked through the air.
Dana covered me.
Officers fired.
Someone screamed.
I looked at Vincent.
He was on his knees.
For one strange second, he seemed confused.
Then blood spread across the front of his white shirt.
“No.”
My voice disappeared.
“Vincent.”
He looked down at himself.
Then at me.
“Baby?”
Of course that was his first question.
“I’m okay.”
He sagged against the pillar.
I grabbed him.
“Stay with me.”
Police rushed past us.
Riva was on the ground twenty yards away, alive but wounded, officers pinning his arms behind him.
Vincent’s hand found mine.
“You’re safe?”
“Yes.”
His face went pale.
“Good.”
“Do not close your eyes.”
“Claire—”
“No.”
His mouth moved into the faintest smile.
“You’re still bossy.”
I laughed and sobbed at the same time.
Paramedics arrived.
They cut open his shirt.
The bullet had entered high in his chest, missing his heart but causing heavy bleeding.
They loaded him onto a stretcher.
I followed until a paramedic stopped me.
“Ma’am, we need space.”
“I’m going with him.”
Dana touched my arm.
“Claire, you’re thirty-one weeks pregnant.”
“He took a bullet for me.”
I heard the words after I said them.
They sounded like a debt.
Vincent heard too.
His eyes opened.
“No.”
I leaned closer.
“What?”
“You don’t owe me.” His voice was weak. “Not for this.”
My throat closed.
He knew me too well.
Even half-conscious and bleeding, he knew exactly what I was doing.
Turning sacrifice into obligation.
He squeezed my fingers.
“This doesn’t erase Aspen.”
Tears spilled down my face.
“I know.”
“Good.”
Then the paramedics took him away.
I stood in the middle of the courthouse plaza, one hand over our daughter, while the ambulance disappeared into traffic.
The divorce papers in my bag were less than an hour old.
The man inside that ambulance was no longer my husband.
May you like
But as I watched the flashing lights disappear, I realized something terrifying.
I still loved him.
