Chapter 5 - THE PRICE OF ONE FAVORThe bullet struck the brick wall inches above my head.
Marco pushed me behind a parked delivery truck.
“Stay down!”
Another shot rang out.
Glass exploded across the alley.
I covered my stomach with both arms.
For one terrible second, I thought about the baby.
Not Vincent.
Not our marriage.
Just the tiny heartbeat I had heard for the first time two weeks earlier.
Marco fired toward the SUV.
Then he grabbed my hand.
“Move!”
We ran through a service entrance and into an underground parking garage.
A black sedan waited near the exit.
Marco opened the back door.
I climbed inside.
The driver accelerated before Marco had finished closing his own door.
“Where are you taking me?” I demanded.
“Somewhere safe.”
“Whose definition of safe?”
Marco looked at me.
“Vincent's.”
I laughed bitterly.
“That's not very reassuring.”
He didn't argue.
Instead, he handed me a phone.
Vincent was on the line.
“Claire.”
His voice sounded different.
Tense.
Almost frightened.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“I'm fine.”
He exhaled.
“Thank God.”
I stared out the window.
“Your mother sent those men, didn't she?”
Silence.
Then he said, “I don't know yet.”
“Don't lie to me again.”
“I'm not.”
I closed my eyes.
“Vincent, I need my favor.”
He went quiet.
Three years earlier, I had watched him negotiate million-dollar contracts without blinking.
I had seen him make promises that changed people's lives.
Now I was about to ask for the only thing I had ever truly wanted from him.
“Whatever it is,” he said, “you have it.”
“I want you to leave me alone.”
His breathing stopped.
“Claire—”
“No calls. No visits. No security following me unless I specifically ask. No interference with my life.”
“Someone just tried to kill you.”
“And someone connected to your family may have sent them.”
He said nothing.
“I don't want another mansion. I don't want another diamond necklace. I don't want your money.”
My voice broke.
“I want my life back.”
A long silence followed.
Then Vincent spoke.
“You're asking me to let you walk into danger.”
“I'm asking you to respect my decision.”
I heard him swallow.
“Where will you go?”
“That's not part of the favor.”
He was quiet for so long that I thought the call had disconnected.
Finally, he answered.
“Okay.”
One word.
But this time, it meant something.
“Marco will take you wherever you choose. After that, no one from my organization will follow you.”
“Thank you.”
“Claire?”
I waited.
“I'm sorry.”
I closed my eyes.
There had been a time when those two words would have meant everything.
Now they arrived too late.
“Goodbye, Vincent.”
I ended the call.
Across Chicago, Vincent stood alone in his office.
On his desk lay the original police report from Isabella's accident.
It contained a detail that had never appeared in the official investigation.
The brake line on Isabella's car had been deliberately cut.
The mechanic who discovered it had disappeared two days later.
His name was Daniel Mercer.
Vincent recognized it immediately.
Daniel had worked for his father.
And the last known payment to Daniel had come from a private account controlled by Evelyn Moretti.
Vincent stared at the records.
Then Marco called.
“Boss, Claire is safe.”
“Good.”
“There's something else.”
Vincent rubbed his forehead.
“What?”
“Dr. Mitchell says someone impersonated her office to lure Claire into the clinic.”
“Who?”
“We traced the number.”
Vincent waited.
“It belongs to a company registered under Sophia Reynolds.”
Vincent's expression went cold.
“Bring her to me.”
But Sophia was already preparing to leave Chicago.
She stood in a private airport terminal with a passport, a carry-on bag, and a man Vincent had never met.
The man was older, with silver hair and a scar across his jaw.
“You promised this would be finished,” Sophia whispered.
“It will be.”
“She gave him the photograph.”
The man looked at her.
“Then you should have destroyed it.”
Sophia began crying.
“I didn't know Claire was pregnant.”
The man went still.
“Pregnant?”
Sophia nodded.
“Vincent's child.”
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then the man took out his phone.
He dialed a number.
When someone answered, he said only four words.
May you like
“There's another Moretti heir.”
And somewhere in Chicago, a plan eleven years in the making suddenly changed.
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