Chapter 3 - The Forgotten Order
Damian stared at Marco, his brow furrowed in dangerous confusion. "What order?"
Marco opened the leather folder, revealing a certified legal document bearing the official seal of the Moretti Family Enterprise and Damian’s own bold signature at the bottom.
"Seven months ago, when the Bratva attempted to target your home perimeter," Marco explained calmly, though his voice quavered slightly. "You signed Security Directive 904. You instructed the entire inner circle that if Claire ever requested an emergency identity shield or a covert relocation protocol, it was to be executed immediately—without notifying you or asking for your secondary clearance."
Damian felt the room tilt around him.
"You gave that order so enemies couldn't torture you for her location if she was ever placed in protective isolation," Marco continued, looking Damian dead in the eye. "Clause 4 clearly states: 'Once Directive 904 is activated by Claire Moretti, all family resources, tracking hardware, CCTV feeds, and security personnel are strictly prohibited from tracing her movement, under penalty of treason.'"
"I gave that order to protect her from my enemies!" Damian shouted, grabbing Marco by the collar of his coat, pulling him close until their noses almost touched. "I am her husband! Cancel the directive! Override it!"
"We can't, boss," Marco replied quietly. "You made Directive 904 immutable. It requires Claire's personal biometric signature to revoke. As of 5:15 P.M. today, she walked into the central security office, presented the directive, wiped her location data from our private servers, and walked out. If any of us track her, we are breaking the absolute law of the Moretti family—the law you wrote."
Damian let go of Marco slowly, taking a step back.
He had built a steel cage around his empire to keep it bulletproof, but in doing so, he had handed Claire the key to vanish into thin air.
"She thought of everything..." Damian whispered, staring at his bloodied knuckles.
Seven months ago, when he signed that document, Claire had looked at him with warm, trusting eyes, thanking him for keeping her safe. But somewhere over the last eight months—as Alessia’s presence grew louder, as his missed dinners became frequent, as his promises wore thin—Claire had stopped seeing that order as a shield against his enemies.
She had realized it was her exit strategy from him.
"Who gave her the transport?" Damian asked, his voice deathly quiet.
"She took a regular city taxi from the hospital garage," Marco said. "She paid in cash. She left her credit cards, her black card, her wedding ring, and her keycard to the penthouse on the counter in the security office."
Damian turned back to the paper bag on the chair. He picked up the tiny white hat and tucked it carefully into his breast pocket, right over his heart. Then he reached down and picked up the small box of matches resting beside the hospital card.
"Boss?" Marco asked nervously. "What are you doing?"
Damian didn't answer. He took out his cell phone—the satellite phone that had rung eight times while he was lounging in Capri.
He dialed a number.
On the third ring, a soft, seductive voice answered from across the world.
"Damian, darling?" Alessia said, her tone dripping with mock sweetness. "Did you land safely? I was so worried when you rushed off the yacht. Is everything alright with your wife's little false alarm?"
Damian's eyes turned into cold black ice.
"Alessia," Damian said softly.
"Yes, baby?"
"Pack your bags."
"Oh? Are we going to Paris like you promised?"
"No," Damian said, his voice flat, emotionless, and deadlier than a loaded barrel. "You have thirty minutes to leave my estate in Capri. After thirty minutes, my men will burn it to the ground. If you are still inside, they won't stop the fire."
"W-What?!" Alessia gasped, her voice instantly losing its composure. "Damian! What are you saying?! My father is your main supplier in Naples! You can't treat me like this!"
"Your father can keep his supply lines," Damian said coldly. "If I ever hear your voice again, or if you ever set foot on North American soil, I will put your father out of business and tear your family's name off every harbor in Italy. Do you understand me?"
"Damian! You can't blame me for your wife's—"
Damian hung up. He slammed the phone onto the floor and crushed it beneath his heavy boot until the screen was pulverized into black dust.
He turned to Marco. "Get the car."
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"Where are we going, boss?"
"To the docks," Damian gritted out, staring out at the dark, cold rain falling over Chicago. "If my men can't search for her under my name... then I will search for her myself."
