Chapter 2 - The Aftermath on the Island
The marble foyer of the Moretti estate was dead quiet when the grand front doors swung open at eleven-fifteen that night.
Vincent stepped inside, shaking the cold desert air from his tailored cashmere coat. Behind him, Isabella lingered on the threshold, giggling softly into her designer clutch, a light flush on her cheeks from the wine they had shared after watching the sun drop below the crimson cliffs of Red Rock.
“Vincent, you don’t have to be so serious,” Isabella purred, stepping into the dim light of the entryway. She kicked off her high heels, leaving them right in the middle of the polished floor. “Claire’s probably upstairs sleeping. You know how dramatic she gets when she feels neglected. She’ll be fine by morning.”
Vincent didn’t answer. A strange, suffocating heavy silence hung over the mansion—a silence he had never felt in the three years since he brought Claire home as his wife. Normally, even if it was late, the warm scent of lavender oil filled the air, or a faint lamp burned on the hallway console. Tonight, the house smelled like nothing at all. Cold. Empty. Vacant.
“Claire?” Vincent called out, his deep voice carrying up the sweeping double staircase.
Silence answered him.
He unbuttoned his coat and tossed it onto the entryway armchair. A slight frown creased his brow as he walked toward the kitchen. “She’s probably turning off her phone to spite me,” he muttered under his breath, though a sudden, inexplicable knot tightened in his gut.
Isabella followed close behind, her silk dress rustling against her thighs. “Let her throw her little tantrum, Vince. Honestly, she’s been so needy lately. Asking you to watch the sunrise with her? You run half of Las Vegas. You don’t have time to stare at rocks at six in the morning.”
They rounded the corner into the expansive, stainless-steel kitchen.
The room was pristine, illuminated only by the soft glow of the under-cabinet lighting. And there, sitting squarely in the center of the massive dark granite island, was a single stack of paper under a heavy glass paperweight. Beside the stack rested a slender gold band.
Vincent stopped in his tracks. His eyes locked onto the gold ring.
It was the wedding band he had placed on Claire’s finger in a private chapel in Tuscany three years ago—a custom-cut diamond channel set in platinum, crafted specifically for her delicate hands.
“What is that?” Isabella asked, taking a step forward and tilting her head. “Is she leaving you a note? Wow, how melodramatic.”
Vincent ignored her. He stepped toward the island, his movements slow, almost hesitant, as if approaching an unexploded bomb. He reached out and lifted the heavy paperweight, setting it aside with a dull click.
The top document was a crisp, legal-grade printout.
IN THE DISTRICT COURT OF CLARK COUNTY, NEVADA PETITION FOR DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE Plaintiff: Claire Moretti Defendant: Vincent Moretti
Vincent stared at the bold letters. The breath caught in his throat. Divorce papers. Signed in dark blue ink at the bottom of every page. Claire’s neat, elegant signature was clear and unhesitating.
“She’s bluffing,” Vincent said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, gravelly whisper. “She thinks she can intimidate me with a legal filing.”
“See? I told you!” Isabella laughed, leaning over his shoulder to glance at the paper. “She’s playing games, Vincent. She wants you to chase her. Just ignore it and she’ll come crawling back by tomorrow afternoon—”
“Shut up, Isabella,” Vincent commanded cold as ice, without looking at her.
He moved the divorce petition aside to see what lay beneath it.
The next paper was from a private women's health clinic in downtown Las Vegas. Dated yesterday at 9:15 AM.
LABORATORY DIAGNOSIS: POSITIVE PREGNANCY CONFIRMATION Patient: Claire Moretti Estimated Gestation: 6 Weeks, 2 Days
Vincent’s heart stopped. The blood roared in his ears so violently he could hear his own frantic pulse against his eardrums.
Pregnant.
The date stamp was from the exact morning of the day he had brushed her off. The night she had called his phone, her voice shaking, asking him—begging him—to come home early because she had something important to tell him.
“Not tonight, Claire,” he had told her. “Isabella wants a mango crêpe cake... She’s going through a breakup.”
Vincent’s hands began to shake—hands that had held loaded weapons, signed hundred-million-dollar casino deals, and controlled the dark underbelly of the Las Vegas strip without a single tremor. He turned the page.
The next document was a medical report stamped with red bold letters: CLINICAL COMPLICATIONS / FETAL LOSS.
It detailed the emergency procedure Claire had undergone hours after walking out of the clinic. The internal bleeding. The sudden drop in blood pressure. The spontaneous abortion. The doctor’s notes were cold, precise, and brutal: Patient presented alone. No emergency contact listed. Surgical evacuation completed without partner present.
Vincent felt as if someone had driven a physical sledgehammer directly into his ribs. He staggered back an inch, clutching the edge of the granite island to keep his feet under him.
She lost the baby.
Their baby. The child he didn't even know existed because he was across town standing in line at a bakery buying a piece of cake for another woman.
“Vincent? What is it? What’s wrong with you?” Isabella asked, her voice dropping its playful tone as she noticed his deathly pale face.
Vincent didn't answer. His trembling fingers turned the final page.
It was an emergency department discharge summary from Valley Hospital, timestamped at 4:30 AM this morning.
DIAGNOSIS: SEVERE ACUTE ANAPHYLACTIC REACTION Trigger: Ingestion of and skin contact with Mango proteins. Treatment: Epinephrine administration, IV Corticosteroids, Supplemental Oxygen. Attending Physician Note: Patient arrived via EMS without accompanying family. Airway was severely compromised. High risk of fatal respiratory arrest upon arrival.
Underneath the doctor’s signature was a hand-written note from the triage nurse: Patient refused to notify husband upon discharge. Left via taxi at 11:00 AM.
The cake.
The mango crêpe cake he had shoved across the counter at her. The cake he had forced her to open, accusing her of being petty, dramatic, and spiteful toward Isabella. The cake whose cream had smeared across her fingers while Isabella laughed and said allergies were just skin irritation.
Claire hadn't been threw a tantrum. She was suffocating in their living room while he was upstairs in the guest house helping Isabella move her luggage.
“Vincent?” Isabella reached out, laying a manicured hand on his forearm. “You’re creeping me out. What do those papers say?”
Vincent turned his head slowly. His dark eyes, usually calculating and controlled, were wild, bloodshot, and filled with a terrifying, unhinged fury.
He grabbed the stack of papers in one hand, grabbed Isabella by the wrist with the other, and shoved her backward with enough force to make her stumble against the kitchen wall.
“Vincent!” she gasped, clutching her wrist in shock. “What are you doing?!”
“Get out,” he growled, his voice a low, terrifying rasp that vibrated from deep in his chest.
“What? Vincent, it’s midnight! Where am I supposed to—?”
“Get the hell out of my house!” he roared, slamming his fist onto the granite counter so hard the glass paperweight shattered into three pieces. “Get your things, get your clothes, and get out of my sight before I have my men throw you into the desert!”
Isabella backed away in absolute terror, her eyes wide as she realized the man standing before her was no longer the charming, protective billionaire friend she had been manipulating for months. He was the monster of Las Vegas.
She scrambled out of the kitchen, her desperate footsteps echoing down the marble hall until the heavy front door slammed shut behind her.
Left alone in the cavernous, quiet house, Vincent sank to his knees on the cold tile floor.
He held the discharge papers against his chest, clutching his wife’s gold wedding ring between his thumb and forefinger until the platinum edges dug bloodily into his skin.
He pulled out his phone with slick, shaking hands and dialed her number.
“The number you have reached is no longer in service or has been disconnected...”
He dialed her attorney. He dialed her friends. He dialed every hospital, hotel, and private airfield in Nevada.
May you like
Nothing.
Claire was gone. She hadn't just left the house—she had erased herself from his world, leaving behind only the bloody receipts of his own monstrous neglect.
