Chapter 4 - The Game Begins"Your terms are insulting, Alistair," I said, leaning back in my chair and crossing my arms over my chest.
Alistair blinked, surprise momentarily flickering across his usually impenetrable facade. Most people in Chicago shook in terror when he offered terms; they certainly didn't negotiate. "Insulting? I'm offering you the keys to the kingdom Dante built on your back."
"You're offering me a secondary role in a war I intend to lead," I countered, standing up to look him dead in the eye. Pregnancy hormones were a volatile cocktail, mixing with pure, unadulterated vengeance to create a force of nature Dante Moretti had never anticipated. "You want the Moretti encryption keys because you can't crack his firewall without them. Without me, your attack will stall in federal court for five years. With me? We dismantle his entire operation in thirty days."
Alistair stared at me for a long, silent moment. Then, slowly, a slow, appreciative grin spread across his face.
"Dante really was an idiot," Alistair murmured, shaking his head. "He spent five years treating you like a trophy wife, completely blind to the steel underneath the silk."
"Do we have a deal, or do I burn the drive right now?" I asked, picking up the micro-drive from the table and holding it hovering over a glass of water.
Alistair raised both hands in mock surrender. "Deal. What are your conditions?"
"Three things," I said, ticking them off on my fingers. "First, absolute protection for me and my unborn child—and no, Alistair, don't look surprised, I know how to guard my secrets. Second, full financial independence funded through frozen Moretti assets once the courts lock them down. And third..." A dark, wicked satisfaction curled in my chest. "...I want to deliver the first legal blow myself, right to Dante’s face at the upcoming mayoral charity gala next week."
Alistair chuckled darkly. "Consider it arranged. My legal team will draw up the ironclad contracts tonight. Welcome to the war, Lena."
By the time Alistair and his men vanished into the Chicago night, the blueprint for Dante’s destruction was set. But as I touched my stomach, a cold wave of dread washed over me. I wasn't just fighting Dante anymore. I was hiding a pregnancy that would complicate every legal maneuver, every dangerous confrontation, and every secret I kept from both men.
Two days later, the trap began to close.
Dante, frantic and unhinged, finally made a desperate public move. He called a press conference at Moretti Tower, crying crocodile tears for the cameras, claiming his beloved wife had been kidnapped by unknown rivals, and offering a ten-million-dollar reward for my safe return.
I watched the live broadcast from a secure safehouse provided by Alistair, sitting in a leather armchair with a cup of chamomile tea. On screen, Dante looked exhausted. His tie was loose, his hair slightly disheveled—the picture of a heartbroken husband.
"If you can hear me, Lena, please come home," Dante pleaded into the microphones, his voice cracking with rehearsed emotion. "Whatever mistakes were made... we can fix them. I love you."
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I muted the television, a cold, bitter smile touching my lips.
You love the control, Dante, I thought, standing up and walking toward the full-length mirror. You love having a wife who stands quietly in the background while you play god. But your reign is over.
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