Chapter 3 - The Return to an Empty Throne
The wheels of Lucian Moretti’s Gulfstream touched down at JFK International Airport at 8:15 that evening.
Rain lashed against the fuselage as the jet taxied toward the private hangar. Lucian sat in the leather captain’s chair, staring at his phone. The port agreement had been signed, securing the Mediterranean corridor for the next ten years. It was a massive victory.
Yet an inexplicable heaviness pressed against his sternum.
He had texted Serena three times upon boarding:
*Landing at eight. Coming straight to the hospital. Bring Leo home tomorrow.*
None of the messages had been delivered. A red exclamation mark hovered beside each text.
“Matteo,” Lucian barked as he stepped into the rear of the armored Cadillac waiting on the tarmac. “Why isn’t my wife’s phone receiving messages?”
Matteo sat in the front passenger seat, staring straight ahead through the windshield wipers. His posture was rigid.
“Mrs. Moretti discharged herself from Mercy General at two o’clock this afternoon,” Matteo said quietly.
Lucian frowned, adjusting his silk tie. “She had a major delivery less than sixteen hours ago. Why would Morrison allow her to leave?”
“She didn't allow it. Mrs. Moretti signed an AMA—Against Medical Advice—form. She had a private medical team and two pediatric nurses escort her.”
A surge of irritation mixed with possessiveness washed over Lucian. “Then take me to the penthouse. She’s resting at home.”
“She’s not at the penthouse, boss.”
Lucian went cold. “What do you mean she’s not at the penthouse?”
Matteo handed a tablet back to him. On the screen was a live security feed of their 74th-story penthouse on Park Avenue. The foyer was empty. The lights were out.
“Her personal security detail escorted her and the child to an undisclosed location,” Matteo explained, his voice tight. “When I went up to retrieve her luggage, the locks had been electronically reprogrammed. My master key was revoked. The building management informed me that the lease and the property deed are held entirely under *Aegis Holdings*.”
“Aegis Holdings is my company,” Lucian snarled.
“No, sir,” Matteo said gently, turning around to face his boss. “Aegis Holdings was structured under your wife’s name during the 2021 restructuring. You signed the proxy transfer two years ago to shield the assets from the federal inquiry.”
Lucian’s heart hammered against his ribs. The penthouse wasn’t just a home; it was his fortress.
“Drive to the building,” Lucian commanded. “Now.”
Twenty minutes later, Lucian strode through the grand marble lobby of the Park Avenue tower. Two private security guards he had never seen before stepped in front of the private elevator bank.
“Mr. Moretti,” the taller guard said, raising a gloved hand. “You do not have access to this floor.”
“I own this building,” Lucian said, his voice dropping into the deadly, gravelly register that usually made grown men back down. “Step aside before I have you thrown into the East River.”
The guard didn’t blink. “We are contracted by Chen & Associates. We have a standing restraining order regarding access to the residence, pending the emergency family court hearing tomorrow morning at nine.”
A tall, slender figure emerged from the shadows of the lobby lounge. Marcus Chen, wearing an immaculate bespoke charcoal suit, held a slim leather portfolio.
“Good evening, Lucian,” Marcus said calmly.
Lucian turned on the lawyer, his teeth bared. “Marcus. What kind of circus is this? Where is my wife? Where is my son?”
“Serena is in a secure, medically supervised environment, recovering from an emergency Cesarean section,” Marcus said, his voice devoid of emotion. “An emergency procedure that occurred while you were sipping Bellinis with Bianca Romano at the Villa d’Este.”
The blood drained from Lucian’s face. “That was a business trip.”
“Save the closing arguments for Judge Vance tomorrow,” Marcus replied, handing him a thick legal packet. “These are your copies. Serena has filed for immediate legal separation, full temporary physical custody of Leo Lucian Moretti, and an injunction freezing all joint liquid accounts.”
Lucian looked down at the documents. The bold black letters at the top felt like a physical blow: *MORETTI V. MORETTI.*
“She can’t do this,” Lucian breathed, his voice cracking for the first time in his life. “I am his father.”
Marcus stepped closer, his dark eyes fixing on Lucian with profound contempt.
“She gave birth alone, Lucian. Her blood pressure spiked to 190. She was bleeding on an operating table while Matteo begged you to board that plane. You looked at your mistress and said, ‘Not yet.’”
Lucian felt the floor tilt beneath his Italian leather shoes.
“How do you know that?” Lucian whispered.
May you like
Marcus smiled, a cold, razor-thin expression. “Because Matteo’s car phone was linked to the central office dispatch. It was recorded. And tomorrow morning, that recording will be played in front of the presiding judge.”
***
