Chapter 4 - Ghost in Chicago
The rain was relentless, heavy drops slapping against the cracked pavement of Chicago’s Greyhound bus terminal on 95th Street.
Claire Moretti sat on a metal bench in the far corner of the dimly lit waiting area, pulled deep into the shadows. She wore a plain, oversized gray wool coat she had purchased for forty dollars at a thrift store three blocks from the hospital. Her long dark hair was tied back in a messy bun beneath a plain black beanie.
Her abdomen throbbed with a dull, searing pain with every breath she took. The surgical incision from her emergency C-section was fresh, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the hollow, terrifying emptiness inside her chest.
Beside her on the cold metal bench sat a small, polished mahogany box no larger than a hardcover book.
She rested her hand over the polished wood, her fingers tracing the silver plaque engraved with three words:
Leo Moretti – 3:17 A.M.
"We're leaving now, baby," Claire whispered softly, her eyes staring blankly at the flickering fluorescent lights above. "No more loud men. No more gunshots in the middle of the night. No more waiting by the window for someone who is never coming home."
A loud, static-filled voice squawked over the terminal speaker: "Bus 409 to Boston, with stops through Indiana and Ohio, now boarding at Gate 4."
Claire pulled her coat tight around herself, stood up slowly, and braced against the sharp pang in her lower abdomen. She carried only a canvas tote bag containing a few changes of plain clothes, her birth certificate under her maiden name—Claire Montgomery—and the small wooden box.
She walked out into the cold bay, handed her printed paper ticket to the driver, and stepped up the narrow stairs of the bus.
She chose a window seat near the back. As the engine roared to life and the heavy vehicle backed out of the station, Claire looked out at the Chicago skyline fading in the rain.
For five years, she had loved Damian Moretti. She had loved him when he was just an ambitious lieutenant in his uncle's syndicate, and she had stayed by his side as he climbed to the very top of the empire, swimming through blood and corporate takeovers.
She had tolerated the armed bodyguards outside their bedroom door. She had tolerated the constant threat of rival cartels. She had even tolerated his cold, unreadable demeanor because she believed that underneath the iron exterior, he loved her.
But love wasn't measured in expensive diamond necklaces, private security teams, or penthouse views.
Love was answering the phone on the eighth ring when your twenty-nine-week pregnant wife was bleeding on the floor.
Love was being there to hold your dying son's hand so he didn't have to take his last breath alone in an incubator.
May you like
Damian had failed both tests.
As the bus merged onto Interstate 90 heading east away from the city, Claire pulled her knees up to her chest, laid her head against the cold glass window, and finally let her tears fall in the dark.
