Chapter 4 - The Strategy Room
Julian, who turned out to be a former surgical nurse employed full-time by the DeSantis family, treated my lip with quiet, efficiency. He applied a clear medical adhesive that sealed the split skin without requiring stitches, then left me in a master dressing room stocked with plush robes and high-end silk garments that looked as though they had been selected specifically for my dimensions.
I washed the dried blood from my face, showered in hot water that finally burned the chill out of my bones, and put on a heavy cream wool sweater and tailored dark trousers that had been laid out on the bed.
When I stepped back into the main living room at midnight, the black garbage bag was gone. In its place on the coffee table sat my leather bag, my wallet, and three leather-bound notebooks with worn spines.
My telemetry journals.
I stared at them, my heart skipping a beat. "How did you get these?"
Matteo sat in a deep leather armchair near the window, an open laptop on his knees. He looked up, his expression serene.
"My associates visited your Highland Park residence twenty minutes ago," he said, taking a sip of his scotch. "They informed Mr. Whitaker that proprietary records belonging to a consultant under contract with DeSantis Logistics needed to be surrendered immediately to avoid an injunction."
"Did Chase... did he fight them?"
"Chase was entertaining Miss Sutton in the kitchen," Matteo said, a faint note of disgust in his voice. "When six men in tailored suits enter a home at eleven o’clock on a rainy night, men like Chase Whitaker do not fight. They sign receipt forms."
I walked over to the table and touched the worn leather cover of the top notebook. It contained eight months of technical data—every gear ratio, every suspension adjustment, every tire wear index from Chase's private practice sessions at the Joliet track. More importantly, it contained the handwritten notes detailing Chase's physical limitations: the weakness in his left ankle that made him break three meters earlier than his rivals on tight right-hand turns, a weakness he had spent eighteen months hiding from the racing stewards.
"Why are these so important to you?" I asked, looking across at Matteo.
"Because tomorrow morning at nine o'clock, Chase Whitaker is holding a press conference at the Drake Hotel," Matteo said, shutting his laptop with a quiet click. "He is announcing his new title sponsor for the upcoming Cup season."
I frowned. "He doesn't have a title sponsor. That’s why I came to see you six weeks ago. His primary funder backed out in September."
"He thinks he has one," Matteo corrected smoothly. "A subsidiary of Apex Global signed an intent agreement with him three days ago. Apex Global is owned by Marcus Vance."
My blood ran cold. Marcus Vance was a cutthroat corporate raider who had been trying to buy into the Chicago transport union for five years—a man who was Matteo’s fiercest rival in commercial real estate and shipping.
"Chase sold out to Vance?" I whispered.
"Chase sold you out to Vance," Matteo said, standing up and walking toward me. "The photographs of us at my office were taken by a private investigator hired by Vance’s team. Vance leaked them to Chase through Brielle Sutton."
The pieces clicked together in my head with terrifying clarity. Brielle hadn't just stumbled into Chase’s life; she had been planted there. Vance had fed Chase's paranoia, convincing him that I was leaking his technical data to Matteo during our late-night meetings.
Chase hadn't just kicked me out because he was having an affair. He had kicked me out because he believed he was executing a brilliant corporate betrayal, clearing me off his board before taking Vance's money.
"They used me," I said, my fists clenching at my sides.
"They tried to," Matteo said, stopping a foot away from me. "They assumed you were just a loyal, quiet wife who would take a small settlement, cry into her pillow, and disappear back to your family's home in Indiana."
He reached out, his long fingers gently touching the corner of the desk where my journals lay.
"They do not realize that without these notebooks, Chase’s car will fail the technical inspection at Daytona in February," Matteo continued. "They do not realize that the telemetry algorithms Vance paid three million dollars to acquire were copyrighted under your personal LLC three years ago."
I looked up into his pale gray eyes. "I registered the software in my name when I incorporated my consulting firm."
A slow, genuinely approving smile spread across Matteo’s face. It transformed his harsh, intimidating features into something striking, almost intoxicatingly handsome.
"You are a very dangerous woman, Vivian," he murmured. "I like that."
"What do you want me to do?" I asked, feeling a cold, sharp ambition rekindling inside me—a feeling that had been buried for eight years under the weight of Chase's endless ego.
"I want you to attend the press conference tomorrow morning," Matteo said softly. "Not as Chase Whitaker's disgraced, battered wife."
"Then how?"
Matteo reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, velvet-lined mahogany box. He flipped it open with his thumb.
Inside rested a platinum ring set with a flawless, emerald-cut black diamond, surrounded by tiny, brilliant white baguettes. It was heavy, ancient, and unmistakably powerful.
"My grandmother wore this ring when my grandfather took control of the North Side docks in 1962," Matteo said, his voice dropping into a deep, reverent tone. "In this city, this ring carries more authority than a court order."
I stared at the ring, my heart hammering in my throat. "Matteo... we can't. That’s insane. Everyone knows I was married to Chase twelve hours ago."
"In my world, Vivian, speed is the only advantage that matters," Matteo said, stepping closer until his chest almost touched mine. "Chase Whitaker put a hand on you. He tried to destroy your reputation to cover his own treason. Tomorrow, we show Chicago who truly owns the board."
He took the ring from the box, holding it between his thumb and forefinger.
"You put this on," Matteo whispered, "and by sunrise, Chase Whitaker’s career will be over. His sponsors will drop him, his bank accounts will be frozen under corporate audit, and Marcus Vance will realize he just bought a ghost ship."
He looked into my eyes, waiting.
May you like
"And what do you get out of this, Matteo?" I asked, my voice barely audible over the hum of the rain against the glass.
"I get the smartest strategist in the Midwest sitting at my right hand," he said without hesitation. "And I get to remind this city what happens when someone touches something that belongs to me."
