I closed my eyes.
“Already?”
“Yes.”
“What does it say?”
She paused.
“They want a meeting.”
I stared at the rain.
“No.”
Rebecca’s voice remained calm.
“Understood.”
I swallowed.
“Can he stop the divorce?”
“He can contest certain issues, and the process may take time. But your decision to seek a divorce is yours.”
My eyes filled.
For a moment, I thought about Adrian.
The way everyone stood when he entered a room.
The way armed men lowered their eyes.
The way he’d once told me that nothing happened in Chicago without his permission.
Now I whispered:
“Good.”
Rebecca continued.
“We also need to discuss your safety and any contact restrictions you want to request.”
I took a breath.
“Yes.”
“And Claire?”
“Yes?”
“You are allowed to recover before making every decision about your future.”
For several seconds, I couldn’t speak.
Then I whispered:
“Nobody has told me that in a very long time.”
After the call, I sat beside the window.
Outside, the rain slowed.
For the first time since the kidnapping, I wasn’t waiting for Adrian to decide what happened next.
And that frightened me.
But beneath the fear was something else.
Freedom.
Small.
Uncertain.
But real.
Chapter 3 – THE GIRL WHO GREW UP BELIEVING SHE OWED THEM EVERYTHING
The Morettis took me in when I was sixteen.
My father had already been dead for two years.
His name was Thomas Bennett.
He was a quiet man.
A mechanic.
A driver.
And for many years, one of Carlo Moretti’s most trusted friends.
People always described Dad as loyal.
They rarely mentioned how funny he was.
How he liked burnt toast.
How he sang terribly in the car.
Or how he never passed a flower stand without buying something for my mother.
I remembered those things.
Not his loyalty.
His love.
He died during an ambush intended for Carlo Moretti.
When the shooting started, my father pushed Carlo out of danger.
Carlo survived.
Dad didn’t.
For years, the Moretti family spoke of his death as a debt that could never be repaid.
Carlo attended the funeral.
Paid for it.
Promised my mother she’d never have to worry about money.
And told me I would always have a place in his family.
Two years later, my mother died after a long illness.
I had no siblings.
No surviving grandparents able to care for me.
And no idea what would happen next.
Carlo kept his promise.
He brought me into the Moretti home.
Gave me a bedroom overlooking the gardens.
Paid for my education.
Made sure I had everything I needed.
And introduced me to people who smiled when they heard my name.
“Thomas Bennett’s daughter.”
“The girl whose father saved Carlo.”
“The little Bennett girl.”
I was grateful.
Desperately grateful.
But gratitude became something complicated.
Because somewhere along the way, I began believing I had to earn the kindness I’d received.
I tried never to complain.
Never ask for too much.
Never embarrass the family.
And never make Adrian unhappy.
—
Adrian was nineteen when I moved into his father’s house.
Tall.
Dark-haired.
Already carrying himself like a man who expected everyone to move aside when he walked through a room.
But he was gentle with me.
He showed me the library.
Helped me study for exams.
Taught me to drive.
And sat beside me during the anniversaries of my parents’ deaths.
When I cried, he didn’t tell me to stop.
He simply stayed.
One winter evening, I found him sitting beside the fireplace.
I had failed a mathematics exam.
Not dramatically.
Not catastrophically.
But at sixteen, it felt like the end of the world.
I was crying.
Adrian looked up.
“Claire?”
I tried to hide my face.
He stood.
Then asked:
“What’s wrong?”
I showed him the exam.
He studied it.
Then smiled.
“That’s all?”
I looked offended.
“Adrian!”
He laughed softly.
Then sat beside me.
“We’ll fix it.”
I shook my head.
“You don’t understand. Carlo expects me to do well.”
Adrian looked at me for a long moment.
Then said:
“Claire, you don’t have to be perfect to belong here.”
I never forgot those words.
For years, they became the foundation of everything I believed about him.
Adrian made me feel safe.
He made me feel wanted.
And eventually, he made me believe I had finally found the person who would never leave me behind.
—
We married when I was twenty-eight.
Adrian was thirty-one.
By then, he had assumed control of much of the Moretti family’s business network.
Luxury hotels.
Shipping interests.
Property holdings.
Restaurants.
And other operations people rarely discussed openly.
I knew he was involved in organized crime.
I wasn’t naïve.
I had grown up in that world.
I understood that his influence came with threats and obligations ordinary families never faced.
