Chapter 1 - The Blood on the Concrete
Rain hammered against the reinforced glass of the private underground garage beneath Moretti Tower.
Adrian Moretti stood beside his black sedan, loosening his silk tie after fourteen hours of board meetings.
The concrete floor smelled of motor oil, exhaust fumes, and the damp chill of late autumn.
A sharp metallic thud echoed from the dark corner near the service elevator.
Marcus Vance, his head of personal security, immediately drew his suppressed sidearm and stepped forward.
A man collapsed from behind a concrete pillar, clutching his ribs with bloodied hands.
His clothes were torn, soaked in rainwater and dark grease.
Adrian almost told Marcus to call a private ambulance and have the vagrant hauled away.
He had no patience for trespassers on private corporate property.
Then the fluorescent overhead lights caught the edge of the man’s left wrist.
A brushed silver case gleamed beneath the grime.
The dial was midnight black and covered in hairline fractures.
Near the winding crown sat a distinctive triangular dent.
Adrian stopped breathing.
The umbrella in his right hand slipped and clattered against the damp pavement.
He crossed the twenty feet of open garage floor in three violent strides.
Marcus kept his weapon trained on the intruder’s chest.
Adrian ignored the protocol and dropped down directly in front of the bleeding stranger.
He seized the stranger's cold wrist with shaking fingers.
The metal was freezing against his palm.
Adrian turned the watch over to expose the heavy folding clasp.
There, scratched into the stainless steel, was an unmistakable engraving.
L.M. — ALWAYS LATE.
Adrian’s heart slammed against his ribs like a sledgehammer.
He had paid for that exact engraving nine years ago at a boutique on Michigan Avenue.
It was a twenty-first birthday gift for his younger brother.
"Where did you get this?" Adrian demanded, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.
The wounded stranger coughed, spitting a smear of crimson onto the polished concrete floor.
His breath rattled inside his chest.
He looked up into Adrian’s face without flinching.
"Your brother," the man gasped.
Adrian’s face drained of color until his skin looked like carved marble.
"My brother has been buried in the family plot for eight years."
"I know who he was," the stranger whispered.
"Then how in the hell do you have his watch?"
"Because I was kneeling in the mud beside him when he stopped breathing."
Adrian’s grip tightened so hard on the stranger's wrist that the bones shifted.
Luca Moretti had been twenty-four years old when his sports coupe flew through a highway barrier.
The state police file had been sealed within forty-eight hours.
Accident caused by torrential rain, excessive speed, and catastrophic impact.
No secondary vehicle was ever officially logged at the scene.
The report stated Luca died on impact before the county volunteer fire department could cut him out.
Adrian had been the one forced to walk into the county morgue to sign the release forms.
He had spent eight long years carrying the guilt of leaving his younger brother to drive alone.
Every personal item on Luca’s body had been cataloged and returned in a plastic evidence bag.
His silver signet ring.
His leather wallet.
His waterlogged phone.
Only the watch had been missing.
The investigating troopers claimed it must have torn free on impact and washed down the ravine.
Now, that impossible timepiece was strapped to the wrist of a dying stranger.
Adrian stood up abruptly and looked at Marcus.
"Clear the garage and bring Doctor Chen up to the private residence suite."
The wounded stranger struggled to sit up against the support pillar.
"No hospitals," the man wheezed, shaking his head frantically.
"No official doctors."
Adrian crouched back down, his dark eyes narrowing.
"You're bleeding internally, and you’re in my garage demanding terms."
"If you put my name into an emergency room intake system, I won't survive until dawn," the man said.
"Who is coming after you?" Adrian asked coldly.
The stranger glanced toward the security ramp that led up toward the stormy Chicago streets.
"The same people who made sure your brother's car went through that barrier."
Adrian felt a sickening drop in the pit of his stomach.
It sounded like cheap theatrics designed to manipulate a grieving billionaire.
Adrian was not an emotional fool who accepted dramatic conspiracies at face value.
He had spent nearly a decade surviving cutthroat boardroom takeovers and family betrayals.
"Start with your name," Adrian commanded.
"Ethan Cole," the man replied, pressing a trembling palm against his punctured side.
"Start with the watch, Ethan."
Ethan leaned his head back against the damp concrete, closing his eyes for a brief second.
"Eight years ago, I drove an independent flatbed tow truck outside Lake County."
Adrian’s jaw set into stone.
Luca’s crash had taken place on an isolated stretch of County Road 17 in Lake County.
"Go on," Adrian whispered.
"It was past midnight, and the storm was taking down power lines," Ethan continued.
"I saw headlights pointing up into the trees from the bottom of a steep drainage ditch."
"You found the wreck?" Adrian asked.
"I was down that embankment ten minutes before the county sirens even started up in the valley."
Adrian leaned in until his shadow swallowed Ethan’s face.
"The crash report states the wreck was spotted by a state patrol cruiser at one in the morning."
"The crash report is a lie," Ethan said plainly.
"Why isn't your name listed as the initial witness?"
May you like
Ethan looked straight into Adrian’s eyes.
"Because when I pried open that bent driver door, Luca was still talking."
