Chapter 3: The Morning Broadcast
The loft was an old brick warehouse conversion near the Pilsen railyards, all exposed iron beams, scarred maple floors, and tall arched windows that let in the grey, slanting light of an Illinois dawn. Luca had left two hours ago, leaving behind a kettle of hot water, a bundle of fresh baby clothes still in their retail packaging, and the low hum of a wall-mounted television tuned to the local morning news.
I sat in an oversized leather armchair with the baby cradled in the crook of my left arm, nursing her while the television anchor’s voice droned through the loft's industrial sound system.
"...and in local society news, a tragic turn for Vance Foundation President Julian Vance," the anchorwoman said, her voice dripping with practiced, synthetic empathy. "Police sources confirm that Mr. Vance's wife, Elena Vance, suffered an acute psychological episode late last night at St. Jude’s Hospital, fleeing the maternity ward with their newborn child just hours after delivery."
The screen cut to a high-definition photograph of Julian standing on the steps of the county courthouse six months ago. He wasn't wearing his bright blue suit today; instead, he wore a charcoal cashmere sweater with the sleeves pushed up to his forearms, looking like a grieving, bewildered young father caught in a nightmare he didn't create. His eyes were red-rimmed—whether from my tears or from Luca’s boot heel, the broadcast didn't specify.
"Julian Vance released a statement this morning through his legal counsel," the anchor continued, her expression darkening appropriately. "My wife is currently experiencing a severe medical crisis," she read from the teleprompter. "I am not interested in press or prosecution; I only want my daughter brought home safely before her health is compromised."
A cold fury, sharp and clean as a scalpel, cut through the exhaustion in my veins.
He hadn't mentioned the scratch on my face. He hadn't mentioned the guard he had bribed to keep the nursery door locked from the outside. To the city of Chicago, to the society editors who printed his picture beside the Mayor's every Sunday, I was simply a hysterical woman who had broken under the pressure of luxury.
The heavy iron door at the end of the entry ramp clicked.
Heavy boots stepped onto the maple floorboards. Luca Moretti walked into the kitchen alcove, shedding his black coat to reveal the damp shoulders of his black turtleneck. He carried a heavy manila envelope in one hand and a takeaway paper bag from a local bakery in the other. He didn't look at the television; he looked straight at me, assessing my face, the position of the baby, the stiff angle of my shoulders.
"You saw it," he stated, setting the bag on the zinc counter.
"He's framing it as a mental breakdown," I said, my voice steady for the first time since I woke up in the delivery ward. I shifted the baby to my shoulder, patting her back until she let out a soft, tiny sigh against my collarbone. "If I go back, the courts will sign over full guardianship by noon tomorrow. He has the psychiatric reports ready—forged ones from three weeks ago."
Luca pulled a heavy golden fountain pen from his inner pocket—the same pen the nurse had dropped in the hallway—and laid it beside the manila envelope on the table.
"The reports don't matter anymore," Luca said, his gaze fixed on mine with a quiet, terrifying intensity. He tapped the thick paper envelope with his index finger. "This is the signature assignment for the Vance Foundation's primary offshore holding. Your signature as vice-president is required to dissolve it legally, or the federal auditors freeze every asset Julian owns by Tuesday."
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He pushed the golden pen toward my hand.
"He wants to play the victim on the morning news?" Luca's mouth twitched into the ghost of a cold, humorless smile. "Let's give him a real reason to cry."
