Chapter 1 - THE FORTY-MILLION-DOLLAR GOODBYE
The first thing I bought with my divorce settlement was a locksmith.
Not a handbag.
Not a yacht.
Not a ridiculously expensive bottle of champagne.
A locksmith.
His name was Walter, he was sixty-two, and he charged me four hundred dollars to replace every lock in my new Lake Michigan condominium.
“Bad divorce?” he asked.
“Excellent divorce.”
He looked confused.
I smiled.
“Forty million dollars excellent.”
Walter laughed.
Then he saw the sofa.
The enormous Italian leather sofa sitting in the center of my living room.
“That's a beautiful couch.”
“Thank you.”
“Expensive?”
“Very.”
He whistled.
I patted the armrest.
“My ex-husband used to conduct criminal business on this sofa.”
Walter stopped smiling.
I laughed.
“Relax. I'm joking.”
Mostly.
My name is Claire Bennett.
Formerly Claire Blackwood.
Thirty-one years old.
Newly divorced.
And forty million dollars richer than I had been the previous morning.
For three years, I had been married to Ethan Blackwood, the most feared Mafia boss in Chicago.
I had married him for money.
He had married me because I was convenient.
Neither of us had pretended otherwise.
At least not in the beginning.
Then Ethan's first love returned.
Vanessa Monroe.
Beautiful.
Manipulative.
Pregnant.
And apparently unaware that Ethan's fertility tests showed no sperm in three separate samples.
When she announced she was carrying his baby, I almost laughed myself into early retirement.
Instead, I negotiated.
Forty million dollars.
A luxury condominium.
Two cars.
My jewelry.
And the sofa.
Especially the sofa.
By noon, I was officially a free woman.
By evening, I was eating Chinese takeout in silk pajamas, watching the Chicago skyline glitter beyond my windows.
Then my phone rang.
Ethan's attorney.
“Mrs. Blackwood?”
“Bennett.”
A pause.
“Ms. Bennett.”
“Much better.”
He cleared his throat.
“Mr. Blackwood has received the medical report.”
I smiled.
“And?”
Another pause.
“He would like to speak with you.”
“I'm sure he would.”
“He says it's urgent.”
I looked at my noodles.
“Tell him I'm busy.”
“Doing what?”
“Enjoying my divorce.”
Then I hung up.
Five seconds later, Ethan called.
I declined.
He called again.
Declined.
Again.
Declined.
Then a message appeared.
CLAIRE. WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?
I took another bite of noodles.
Typed carefully.
Medical science.
His reply arrived immediately.
VANESSA SAYS THE RESULTS ARE WRONG.
I smiled.
Then congratulations on your miracle.
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Finally:
WE NEED TO TALK.
I looked around my beautiful condominium.
At my expensive sofa.
At the enormous windows overlooking Lake Michigan.
Then I typed:
You wanted a divorce, Ethan.
Enjoy it.
I placed the phone facedown.
And for exactly eleven minutes, I believed the story was over.
Then someone knocked on my door.
Three slow knocks.
Not Ethan.
He would have used the intercom, threatened the building manager, or arrived with six armed men.
I approached the door.
Checked the camera.
And froze.
Standing outside was a man I had not seen in seven years.
A man with dark hair, gray eyes, and a scar beneath his jaw.
A man who had once saved my life.
May you like
His name was Adrian Moretti.
And according to Chicago's criminal underworld, he had been dead since 2019.
