Chapter 4 - The Ruin of Isabella
Four months had passed since Claire vanished, but inside the Moretti empire, time had stopped.
Vincent had moved out of the estate. He couldn't stand the quiet hallways, the scent of lavender that refused to dissipate from the master closet, or the sight of the granite kitchen island where he had found the bloody evidence of his sins.
Instead, he lived in his executive suite at The Grand Moretti, sleeping three hours a night, drinking scotch, and turning his rage outward.
If he couldn't find Claire, he would burn down everything that had contributed to her pain.
It started with Isabella.
At three o'clock on a Tuesday afternoon, Isabella sat in the plush lounge of the Wynn, surrounded by her high-society friends, sipping champagne and complaining loudly about how "unreasonable" Vincent had become lately.
“He completely threw me out over some silly misunderstanding,” Isabella scoffed, applying a fresh coat of pink lip gloss. “Honestly, Claire was always so sensitive. She probably ran off with some personal trainer just to get his attention—”
Before she could finish her sentence, four uniformed officers from the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department strode into the opulent lounge, accompanied by two agents from the Nevada Gaming Control Board.
The lounge went dead quiet.
“Isabella Vance?” the lead detective asked, his voice echoing off the gilded walls.
Isabella blinked, lowering her champagne glass. “Yes? Can I help you? I’m having drinks with—"
“Isabella Vance, you are under arrest for corporate fraud, embezzlement, and conspiracy to commit extortion,” the detective announced calmly, pulling a pair of steel handcuffs from his belt.
Isabella’s face drained of color. “What?! That’s absurd! Do you know who I am? My father owns Vance Logistics!”
“Vance Logistics was served with a federal search warrant two hours ago, ma’am,” the gaming agent added coldly. “Your father’s firm has been blacklisted from doing business with every gaming casino in Nevada following an audit submitted by Moretti Enterprises.”
Isabella gasped, her eyes wide with horror. “Vincent... Vincent did this?!”
“Mr. Moretti turned over four years of financial records,” the detective said, pulling her arms behind her back and snapping the cold cuffs around her wrists. “Including proof that you systematically forged expense reports, diverted charitable funds from the Moretti Foundation into offshore personal accounts, and intentionally falsified medical records.”
As she was led through the crowded casino lobby, surrounded by whispering elites and flashing phone cameras, Isabella caught sight of a familiar figure standing on the balcony above.
Vincent stood behind the iron railing, dressed in a sharp, pitch-black suit. He held a glass of dark liquor in his hand, watching her perp-walk with cold, unblinking eyes.
“Vincent!” she screamed, her voice cracking in desperation as the police pushed her toward the glass exit doors. “Vincent, please! We were friends! You loved me! You promised to take care of me!”
Vincent didn't move. He didn't blink. He raised his glass slightly in a silent, lethal toast, watched her get shoved into the back of a police cruiser, and turned his back on her forever.
Ten minutes later, Frank entered the balcony.
“The Vance family asset seizure is complete,” Frank reported quietly. “Her father filed for bankruptcy twenty minutes ago. Isabella won't be getting bail—the judge set it at ten million dollars cash.”
Vincent took a slow sip of his scotch. “Is it done?”
“It’s done,” Frank said. Then he paused, picking his words carefully. “Vincent... ruining Isabella won't bring Claire back.”
Vincent’s grip on his glass tightened until his knuckles turned white. “I know.”
“Our investigators checked another twenty leads this week,” Frank continued softly. “San Francisco, Chicago, Miami, even London. None of them were her. She’s completely off the grid. She doesn't want to be found, boss.”
Vincent closed his eyes, pain searing through his chest like a red-hot iron.
He didn't care about Isabella. He didn't care about the millions she had stolen. He had allowed that toxic, manipulative woman into his life because she was easy, because she didn't demand his heart, because she let him pretend he was still the untouchable king of Vegas.
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And in doing so, he had sacrificed the only pure, genuine love he had ever known.
“Keep looking,” Vincent whispered, his voice cracking with a despair that no amount of money or revenge could ever heal. “Hire more men. Double the budget. Search every town, every village, every city in this country. I don't care if it takes the rest of my life, Frank. I won't stop until I can look her in the eye and tell her I'm sorry.”
