Chapter 8 - Chloe’s Desperate Bargain
News of the gunfire at the Moretti estate did not make the morning television broadcasts.
In Boston, when violence touched the highest tiers of society, the press was managed with surgical precision.
Yet inside the marble walls of the Jones brownstone on Beacon Hill, the air smelled of absolute panic.
By two in the afternoon, my private phone—a secure device Mateo had handed me that morning—vibrated on the library table.
The caller ID showed an unlisted number from a private exchange in downtown Boston.
I looked at Mateo, who gave me a subtle, approving nod before signaling Christian to begin recording the trace.
I tapped the green button and brought the speaker to my ear.
“Adelaide?” a voice whispered, frantic, breathy, and trembling on the edge of hysteria.
It was Chloe.
There was no mocking arrogance in her tone today.
There was no champagne laughter or cruel jokes about damaged merchandise.
“What do you want, Chloe?” I answered, keeping my voice cold and flat as frozen stone.
“Adelaide, please... you have to listen to me,” she stammered, the sounds of manic pacing audible in the background.
“The police are everywhere... Preston is losing his mind... he was locked in his father’s study all morning screaming at someone on the phone.”
“He threw a crystal tumbler at the wall, Adelaide.”
“He said if the Moretti family moves on them today, he is going to drag Father and me down with them.”
I leaned back against the mahogany desk, feeling a cruel, satisfying warmth spread through my chest.
“Why are you calling me, Chloe?”
“You were the one who toasted my execution with vintage Dom Pérignon two nights ago.”
“You told Father that Mateo would discard me like garbage or kill me at the front door.”
Chloe let out a choked sob that sounded pathetic and small.
“I was joking, Adelaide... you know how I talk when Evelyn starts pouring drinks!”
“I never wanted anyone to hurt you!”
“You are my sister!”
The sheer audacity of her lie made me laugh, a short, sharp sound that silenced her instantly.
“We share half our blood, Chloe, but you stopped being my sister the day you watched Evelyn throw my mother's belongings into the fireplace and did nothing.”
“You are calling me because Preston Whitmore just realized his hit squad failed, and you are terrified that you are next.”
Silence stretched over the encrypted line, heavy and suffocating.
When Chloe spoke again, her voice had lost its theatrical veneer of affection, replaced by the desperate cunning of a cornered animal.
“Father has a secret ledger, Adelaide,” Chloe whispered frantically.
“He keeps it inside the wall safe behind the portrait of grandfather in the firm’s downtown office.”
“It contains the offshore routing codes for the Whitmore political pacs.”
“If you get Mateo to grant me safe passage out of the country... if you promise that his men won't touch me... I will steal the ledger and bring it to you tonight.”
Mateo leaned down toward the microphone on the desk, his presence casting a long, intimidating shadow over the call.
“Your little fiancé sent men with automatic weapons into my home four hours ago, Miss Jones,” Mateo said, his gravelly voice cutting through the line like a guillotine.
Chloe shrieked in terror on the other end, nearly dropping the phone.
“M-Mr. Moretti... please... I didn't know anything about the raid!”
“You knew enough to stay safely in your bed while your fiancé ordered my wife executed,” Mateo said coldly.
“Listen to me very carefully, Chloe.”
“You have exactly three hours to walk out of that brownstone with whatever clothes you can carry in one suitcase.”
“If you are still inside the Jones residence when the sun goes down, you will share the fate of the men who gave the orders.”
“Wait... what about Father?” Chloe cried out, her voice cracking.
“Where is Rockford?” I demanded, cutting off her tears.
“He went to the investment firm an hour ago,” Chloe sobbed.
“He called an emergency meeting of the board of directors to liquidate the pension portfolios before the market closes.”
“He is trying to wire the remaining capital to an account in Zurich and board a private jet at Logan Airport by six.”
Mateo signaled Christian with a sharp slash of his hand.
Christian immediately tapped into the flight manifests for private hangars at Logan International.
“Confirmed,” Christian whispered, looking up from his screen.
“A Gulfstream G650 filed a private flight plan to Switzerland scheduled for departure at 6:15 PM under the name of an offshore corporate entity.”
I looked into the phone, speaking with absolute finality.
“Thank you for the information, Chloe.”
“Consider this the only mercy you will ever receive from this family.”
“Adelaide, wait... what am I supposed to do?” Chloe wailed through the receiver.
“Go to Washington and ask your senator for help,” I said coldly.
“Let us see how much the Whitmore family values you when you are no longer the daughter of a wealthy man.”
I ended the call with a firm tap of my thumb, cutting off Chloe’s screams mid-sentence.
Mateo stood up straight, buttoning his charcoal suit jacket with deliberate, calculated precision.
His dark eyes were alive with the thrill of the hunt.
May you like
“Call the convoy,” Mateo commanded his head of security standing by the double doors.
“We have an emergency board meeting to attend on State Street.”
