But that’s not what made me want to put my fist through the library wall. What made me want to grab her by the throat and shake her until that terrified recognition became permanent was the confirmation of what I’ve heard. That damn gentle curve of her belly.
She’s pregnant.
With my father’s child.
She let him touch her, use her, fill her with his genetic material like some common whore spreading her legs for anyone with money and power.
When we were together, she knew her place. Knew that her body belonged to me, that all the pleasure she experienced came through my generosity, that her worth was determined by how well she served my needs.
I taught her to understand pain and pleasure as tools of education. When she disappointed me, consequences followed immediately. When she pleased me, rewards were generous.
She never questioned the business arrangements I made using her identity. Why would she? I told her they were investments in our future together, ways of building wealth as a couple. She signed whatever I put in front of her—incorporation papers, bank accounts, business registrations—trusting that I had our best interests at heart.
The system was elegant in its simplicity. Her name, her credit, her legal identity became the foundation for operations she never knew existed. If anything went wrong, she was the face on all the paperwork while I remained safely in the background.
But I also made sure she’d never want to leave. The psychological conditioning took time, but it was thorough. I eliminated every trace of independence, every spark of rebellion, every dream that didn’t center around pleasing me. By the end, she couldn’t imagine life without my guidance.
So why did she run?
I still don’t understand it. One day, she was perfectly obedient, grateful for my attention, and eager to please. The next day, she was gone, disappeared in the middle of the night like some brat!
The will was supposed to ensure she remained under family protection in case of my death. Marriage to my father, access to Moretti resources, and continuation of operations under new management.
I never expected her to actually fall in love with the old bastard.
But that’s fixable.
Confusion can be corrected with the right incentives. The pregnancy can be terminated before it complicates our reunion. And whoever tried to kill me can be found and punished appropriately.
First, though, I need to contact Marco. My cousin has been handling West Coast operations while I was supposedly dead, maintaining relationships with our Russian partners, keeping the financial networks operational. He’ll have information about who might have wanted me killed.
I pull out the burner phone I’ve been using for months and dial his number.
“Yeah?” Marco’s voice comes through, cautious.
“It’s me.”
Dead silence on the other end.
Then: “Holy shit. The rumors are true—you aren’t dead, you bastard.”
“Very much alive. Can you talk?”
“Jesus, Dante. Where the hell have you been? Everyone thinks you died in that crash months ago.”
“Long story. I need to see you. Can you come to me?”
“Where are you?”
“Desert Palms Motel on Route 15, room 237. And bring food—I’m starving.”
“Consider it done. Give me thirty minutes.”
Twenty-eight minutes later, a knock comes at my door. I grab the pistol from the nightstand and approach cautiously.
“Who is it?”
“Room service,” Marco’s familiar voice calls through the cheap wood.
