Chapter 5 - The Ashes of Capri
Three days later.
The rain in Chicago had turned into a bitter late-autumn slush. Inside the master study of the Moretti estate in suburban Lake Forest, the air was thick with the heavy scent of aged scotch and unlit cigars.
Damian sat behind his massive mahogany desk, staring at a map of the United States spread out before him.
He hadn't slept in seventy-two hours. Dark, purple hollows sunken under his eyes made him look like a ghost of the man who had ruled the city a week ago. On the desk lay three items: the tiny knitted white hat, the 14-second video playing on a loop on his tablet, and Claire’s wedding ring—a six-carat flawless diamond that now felt as worthless as a piece of broken glass.
The double doors of the study creaked open. Marco walked in, dropping a thick stack of surveillance reports onto the desk.
"Nothing, boss," Marco said heavily. "We checked every major airline departure from O'Hare and Midway under her name, her mother's maiden name, and fifteen alias variations. Nothing flagged."
"She didn't take a plane," Damian said quietly, his voice raspy and dry. "Claire knows how our airport facial-recognition software works. She wrote the security protocol for our travel logistics three years ago."
He looked up at Marco, his dark eyes hollow. "She took a bus or a train. Somewhere cold. Somewhere quiet."
"Damian... the syndicate capos are getting restless," Marco hesitated, taking a step closer. "You haven't attended the council meeting in three days. The Bratva in South Chicago are taking advantage of the rumor that you've lost your mind over a personal matter. They seized two of our shipping containers at Pier 42 this morning."
Damian didn't even flinch. He didn't blink.
"Let them have the containers," Damian said softly.
Marco gasped. "What? That’s four million dollars in cargo!"
"I don't give a damn about Pier 42, Marco!" Damian suddenly roared, slamming his palms onto the desk, standing up so fast his leather chair crashed backward onto the floor. "I don't give a damn about the Bratva! I don't give a damn about the council! My son is dead! My wife is gone! Do you think I care about four million dollars of contraband?!"
Marco fell silent, lowering his eyes.
Damian walked over to the floor-to-ceiling glass window, looking out at the barren, snow-dusted grounds of his estate.
"Call the council," Damian ordered, his voice dropping back into a terrifyingly low whisper. "Tell them I am stepping back from daily operations. Turn the logistics over to Antonio."
"Boss, you can't be serious," Marco breathed in disbelief. "Antonio is bloodthirsty. If you give him control, there will be a war in the streets within a month!"
"Then let it burn," Damian said, staring at his reflection in the glass. "If I can't find Claire... nothing in this city matters anyway."
Damian reached down, picked up the tiny white hat from the desk, and tucked it carefully back into his pocket.
"Pack a bag, Marco. Just for you and me. No security detail. No armored motorcade."
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"Where are we going?"
"We are starting in New England," Damian said, his eyes glowing with an intense, obsessive resolve. "I'm going to search every town, every bakery, every hospital, and every church until I find her. And if it takes the rest of my life... I will wait for her the way she waited for me."
