Chapter 9 - The Private War
For three weeks, Chicago belonged to a quiet, invisible war.
Chase did not go quietly into the night. Fueled by pride, alcohol, and the lingering whispers of Brielle Sutton—who had returned to his side once she realized he still had a small personal trust fund from his grandfather—Chase filed a series of emergency lawsuits against me and DeSantis Logistics.
He claimed tortious interference, breach of fiduciary duty, and corporate theft.
He hired a sensationalist celebrity lawyer named Arthur Pendelton, who held daily press conferences outside the Daley Center, accusing Matteo of using mafia intimidation tactics to steal a driver's career and wife.
The media devoured every second of it. Front pages bore headlines like: THE MAFIA KING AND THE RACER'S WIFE and WAR ON THE TRACK: DESANTIS VS WHITAKER.
Inside the penthouse on Michigan Avenue, however, the atmosphere was completely calm.
Every evening at seven o'clock, Matteo and I sat in his study overlooking the city, going over legal filings, sponsor contracts, and technical designs for our new car.
We had hired two top-tier drivers—a brilliant nineteen-year-old rookie from Ohio named Ricky Miller and a seasoned thirty-two-year-old veteran from North Carolina named Sarah Jenkins. With my telemetry software optimized and our custom engine program fully funded, DeSantis Motorsports was projected to qualify in the top five at Daytona.
One cold Tuesday evening, as rain turned into light snow outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, I sat at the mahogany desk reviewing the final affidavit for Chase’s lawsuit.
Matteo walked into the room carrying two cups of chamomile tea. He set one down beside my laptop and stood beside my chair, looking down at the screen.
"Pendelton is requesting a six-million-dollar settlement to drop the intellectual property claim," I said, pointing to the latest filing from Chase's attorney.
"Pendelton is an idiot who owes two million dollars to a bookmaker in Las Vegas," Matteo replied smoothly, taking a sip of his tea. "He will withdraw the claim by Thursday."
I looked up at him, raising an eyebrow. "How do you know that?"
"Because my legal team gently reminded Mr. Pendelton yesterday that his gambling debt is held by an offshore entity controlled by my brother," Matteo said without a hint of guilt. "He has suddenly realized he has a conflict of interest."
I laughed—a real, genuine laugh that echoed softly in the quiet room.
Matteo looked down at me, his gray eyes softening as he watched my face light up. Over the last three weeks, the tension that had held my shoulders rigid for eight years had slowly dissolved. My lip had healed completely, leaving no scar, and my dark hair seemed glossier, my skin warmer.
"What?" I asked, noticing his gaze.
"You laugh differently now," Matteo said softly. "When you lived in Highland Park, you laughed like a person who was checking to see if anyone was offended. Now you laugh like someone who owns the room."
I looked down at the heavy platinum ring on my finger—the black diamond catching the amber light of the desk lamp.
"I spent eight years playing small so Chase could feel big, Matteo," I admitted quietly. "I thought that was what love was supposed to be. Sacrificing yourself so the other person could succeed."
Matteo leaned down, placing his hand over mine on the cool wood of the desk. His fingers were long, strong, warm, and entirely steady.
"Love that requires you to shrink is not love, Vivian," he whispered, his thumb slowly stroking the back of my hand. "It is a hostage situation."
I turned my hand over, lacing my fingers through his.
For the first time in three weeks, I didn't think about Chase, or the lawsuits, or the press conferences. I looked at the man standing beside me—a man feared by an entire city, a man who had built an empire out of willpower and iron, yet who handled me as if I were the most precious object in his world.
"Why did you really come to the gatehouse that night, Matteo?" I asked softly.
Matteo looked out at the snow falling over Lake Michigan, his expression contemplative.
"Six weeks ago, when you walked into my boardroom in that simple black suit," Matteo said quietly, "you sat across from eight male executives who tried to talk down to you. You didn't flinch. You didn't raise your voice. You simply opened your folder, presented your data, and demolished every argument they had within ten minutes."
May you like
He turned back to look at me, his gray eyes burning with an intensity that made my heart race.
"I knew that night that Chase Whitaker was a fool who didn't deserve you," Matteo said. "And when my men called me from his gatehouse to tell me he had struck you... I knew I was never going to let you go back."
