Chapter 4 - The Confrontation at Vance Tower
The penthouse suite at the Four Seasons overlooked the frozen gray waters of Lake Michigan.
Anna stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, wearing a cream cashmere sweater and tailored trousers. She held a warm mug of chamomile tea, her eyes fixed on the horizon where the dark water met the gloomy sky.
Behind her, the door of the bedroom clicked open. Marcus walked out, barefoot, wearing a henley and sweatpants.
"He's asleep," Marcus said softly, walking over to the espresso machine. "He asked if the loud man with the sad eyes was a monster."
Anna’s hand tightened around the ceramic mug until her knuckles turned porcelain white.
"Did you tell him the truth?" she asked without turning around.
"I told him the man was a stranger who got confused," Marcus replied. He poured himself a cup and leaned against the counter, watching her. "Anna... you knew coming back to Chicago would provoke this. Why did you insist on handling the Great Lakes shipping contract yourself? You could have stayed in Zurich. I could have handled the Moretti problem."
"No," Anna said, turning to look at Marcus. Her face was calm, but her eyes were cold, ancient, and relentless. "I spent six months in a burn rehabilitation clinic in Geneva learning how to walk again without crying. I spent two years building an empire with you so that no man—especially not a Moretti—could ever hold my survival over my head. I didn't come back to hide, Marcus. I came back to close the deal that cuts Moretti Shipping out of the Midwest corridor entirely."
"And Vincent?" Marcus asked quietly. "He looked like a man who had been crawling through hell."
"Good," Anna said, her voice entirely devoid of pity. "He can stay there."
A sudden, sharp chime echoed through the suite.
Marcus glanced at the security monitor mounted by the door. His eyebrows lifted. "Speak of the devil. The front desk says Mr. Vincent Moretti has just bought the entire security staff on this floor and is standing outside the door. He came alone."
Anna didn't flinch. She set her mug down on the glass table with deliberate grace.
"Let him in."
"Anna—"
"Let him in, Marcus. Take Leo into the back study and put on his headphones. I want this finished."
Marcus held her gaze for three seconds, nodded, and disappeared down the hall.
A moment later, the heavy suite door swung inward.
Vincent stepped inside. He had not slept. The dark stubble on his jaw was rough, his hair disheveled, his eyes bloodshot and haunted. He didn't look like the ruthless king of the Chicago underworld who made politicians tremble. He looked like a condemned man walking toward the gallows.
He closed the door behind him and stopped ten feet away.
"Anna."
Anna didn't move. She stood with her arms lightly crossed, radiating poise. "Mr. Moretti. Breaking into private hotel suites now? Should I call the commissioner, or do you still pay him enough to ignore home invasions?"
"Stop it," Vincent choked out, his voice cracking. "Please, God, Anna, stop calling me that. Look at me. Just look at me!"
"I am looking at you," she said, her voice razor-sharp. "And I see an intruder."
Vincent took two steps toward her, falling to his knees right there on the Persian rug. The thud of his knees hitting the hardwood underneath echoed in the cavernous room.
Anna didn't step back. She merely looked down at him with an eyebrow arched in contempt.
"I am so sorry," Vincent whispered, his head bowed, his broad shoulders shaking violently as tears finally spilled down his cheeks. "I am so sorry, Anna. Every day. Every single day for three years. I died on that runway with you. I left my soul in the fire. I have lived in absolute torment. If you want my blood, take it. If you want my company, take it. If you want me to kill myself right here in front of you, tell me to do it, and I will. But please... don't tell me you don't know who I am."
The room was silent for a long, agonizing minute.
Anna looked down at the man who had once been her entire universe. She remembered the day they had said their vows in the cathedral, how tall he had stood, how safe she had felt wrapped in his arms.
And then she remembered the smell of burning jet fuel.
She remembered the metallic screech of tearing wings.
She remembered looking at his face as he took Sophia’s hand and said: *“I’m taking Sophia out first.”*
She took a slow, measured breath.
"Do you know what happened after you left, Vincent?" she asked. Her voice was flat, matter-of-fact, which made the words ten times more brutal.
Vincent lifted his tear-stained face, dread seizing his chest.
"The cabin ceiling caved in," Anna whispered. "A metal support beam pinned my legs against the seat. The fire was already licking the carpet under my feet. I screamed your name. I screamed it until the smoke scorched my vocal cords. I begged God to let you come back through that door."
Vincent covered his face with his hands, weeping uncontrollably. "Anna... stop... please, God..."
"You didn't come," she continued, her gaze unwavering. "The copilot did. Daniel. A twenty-four-year-old kid you paid eighty thousand dollars a year to fly your toys. He had a broken collarbone, but he crawled back into the smoke with an emergency axe. He cut me loose. He dragged me through the rear service door and threw me into the swamp water just three seconds before the main tank went off."
Vincent looked up, his jaw slack, his chest heaving. "Daniel..."
"Daniel died of smoke inhalation on the shore ten minutes later," Anna said coldly. "Holding my hand. While his employer was thirty yards away, wrapped in a blanket, checking to make sure his ex-girlfriend hadn't chipped a nail."
"Anna, I didn't know!" Vincent cried, crawling forward on his knees, reaching out to grasp the hem of her trousers. "I swear to you on my mother's grave, I was turning back! I pushed Sophia down the slide and I turned back to get you! The blast threw me fifty feet! I was in a coma for four days with internal bleeding! I thought you were gone!"
"You chose, Vincent," Anna said, her tone as cold as an Arctic winter. She stepped back, pulling the hem of her trousers out of his reach. "When the crisis came, your instinct didn't reach for your wife. It didn't reach for your unborn child. It reached for Sophia. In that one second, you showed me who had your heart."
"No! She meant nothing! It was panic! It was just instinct—"
"Instinct reveals what we value most," Anna cut him off. "And now, you have your answer. Anna Bennett died in that plane with the foolish girl who loved you. I am Victoria Vance. I survived the fire you left me in. And I owe you nothing."
Vincent swallowed the thick bile in his throat. He looked at the closed door of the hallway.
"And Leo?" Vincent asked, his voice trembling with a terrifying blend of hope and fear. "He’s mine. You know he’s mine, Anna. He’s my son."
Anna’s eyes narrowed into slits of green ice.
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"Leo has never known a father who would abandon him to burn," she said, each word a bullet aimed straight between his eyes. "And as long as I have breath in my body, Mr. Moretti... he never will."
***
