Chapter 8 - The Traitor Unmasked
Midnight in downtown Chicago was pitch black, swallowed by a torrential downpour that turned the city streets into slick black mirrors.
Atop the thirty-story Moretti Tower on Michigan Avenue, Marco Moretti sat behind his massive mahogany desk, pouring himself a third tumbler of straight bourbon. His hands were shaking so violently the glass clinked against his teeth.
"Where are the guards?" Moretti barked at his remaining lieutenant. "Why isn't the lobby answering?"
"I... I don't know, boss," the lieutenant stammered, pulling his pistol. "The security cameras in the elevator shaft just went black—"
BOOM.
The heavy double reinforced steel doors of the penthouse suite exploded inward in a shower of splintered wood, twisted metal, and shattered glass.
Through the smoke stepped Davis Calvetti.
He wore a long black leather coat soaked with rain. In his right hand, he held a heavy shotgun; in his left, a silenced pistol. Behind him, Sterling and twenty tactical soldiers poured into the penthouse, systematic and lethal.
The room erupted into absolute carnage.
Moretti’s mercenaries tried to raise their weapons, but Davis moved like the reaper himself. Every shot he fired was precise, devastating, and merciless. In less than forty-five seconds, every guard in the room was dead on the Italian marble floor.
Moretti scrambled backward on his hands and knees, knocking over his expensive leather chairs, screaming in sheer, unadulterated terror.
"Davis! Wait! Wait!" Moretti shrieked, backing against the floor-to-ceiling glass window overlooking the storm-swept city. "It was business! Just business! The council will condemn you for this!"
Davis walked slowly across the room, his heavy leather boots leaving bloody footprints on the Persian rug.
He stopped two feet from Moretti. He didn't raise his shotgun. He simply looked down at the pathetic, trembling old man with pale, lifeless eyes.
"You targeted my children," Davis said, his voice quiet, almost gentle in its absolute finality. "And you shot the woman I love."
"I'll give you everything!" Moretti wept, holding up his shaking hands. "My territory! My accounts! Millions, Davis! Millions!"
"I don't want your money, Marco," Davis said.
He reached out, grabbed Moretti by his silk tie, and dragged him effortlessly to his feet. With one burst of terrifying strength, Davis slammed Moretti backward through the floor-to-ceiling glass window.
The heavy glass shattered with a deafening roar.
Moretti screamed as he dangled thirty stories over the dark Chicago pavement, held only by Davis’s iron grip on his necktie.
"Please, Davis! Please!" Moretti wailed, the freezing rain lashing his face.
Davis looked down into the void, then back into Moretti’s terror-filled eyes.
"Tell Adrian I said hello," Davis whispered.
He let go of the tie.
Moretti’s scream faded rapidly into the dark night, swallowed by the roar of the storm below.
Davis stood by the broken window, the icy wind whipping his rain-soaked coat around his legs. He lowered his weapon, pulled out his phone, and dialed Mr. Sterling.
"It's over," Davis said flatly. "Transfer all Moretti assets to the trust fund for Toby and Bella. Erase the name. We are going home."
By 4:00 AM, the rain had cleared, leaving the sky over Lake Michigan a soft, pale indigo.
Davis returned to the private medical wing in Wisconsin. He stripped off his wet coat, washed the rain and gunpowder from his hands, and walked quietly into Clara’s ICU room.
The heart monitor was steady now: beep... beep... beep...
He sat down in the armchair, taking her warm hand in his. His eyes were heavy, exhausted, but for the first time in two years, the dark, suffocating rage inside his chest was gone.
As the first golden rays of the morning sun crept through the window blinds, Clara’s eyelashes fluttered.
She let out a soft, faint gasp, her head turning slowly on the pillow.
Davis stood up instantly, leaning over her bed, his heart pounding in his throat. "Clara?"
Her dark eyes opened slowly, hazy and filled with pain, but clear enough to focus on his face.
"Davis..." she whispered, her voice barely a thread of sound.
"I'm here, my love," he choked out, bringing her hand to his cheek, weeping openly as her fingers feebly brushed against his warm skin. "I'm right here."
"The... the kids..." she stammered, panic trying to enter her eyes. "Toby... Bella..."
"They are safe," Davis promised, kissing her forehead again and again. "They are sound asleep down the hall. You saved them, Clara. You saved all of us."
Clara let out a small, weak sigh of relief, a beautiful, faint smile touching her pale lips. "Good..."
"Listen to me, Clara Mitchell," Davis rasped, looking deep into her eyes with an intensity that shook her soul. "You are never working as a nanny again. Your contract is shredded. Your mother’s medical bills are paid in full for the rest of her life."
Clara blinked, confused. "Davis... what are you saying?"
"I'm saying," he whispered, leaning down so his lips were an inch from hers, "that I am never letting you go. You are my heart, Clara. Will you stay with me? Not as an employee... but as my wife? As the mother of my children?"
May you like
Tears of joy spilled from the corners of Clara’s eyes, cutting through the pale exhaustion on her cheeks. She reached up with her good hand, sliding her fingers into his dark, soft hair.
"Yes, Davis," she whispered, her voice filled with absolute, triumphant love. "Yes."
