I Thought Claire Would Always Come Home—Then I Heard She’d Left One Final Message for My Attorney.

The threat hung in the air, echoing against the high ceilings of the magnificent foyer. Ethan stood beside the pristine, white-painted plaster wall, his entire body rigid with a violent, coiled energy. He was a man who ruled Chicago’s underworld with absolute, terrifying authority. He was not a man who was left in the dark by his own wife.

"I need you to calm down, Mr. Blackwood," Michael urged, his voice remarkably steady despite the death threat. "If you lose your temper now, you are going to miss the most critical details of what I am about to say."

"I am perfectly calm," Ethan lied, though his left hand had formed a tight, shaking fist. "Tell me what flight she took. Tell me what credit card she used. I will have a team waiting for her at whatever baggage claim she lands at."

"She didn't use the joint accounts," Michael explained carefully. "She used a private account she opened before you were married. The funds are entirely untraceable by our usual syndicate methods. She didn't want to be followed, Ethan."

The use of his first name—a severe breach of protocol for the assistant—sent a cold shock down Ethan's spine.

"Why wouldn't she want to be followed?" Ethan asked, his voice dropping into a dark, lethal register. "Did she find out? Is that what this is about?"

He didn't need to specify what she might have found out. Vanessa. The weekend getaway. The careless, arrogant assumption that Claire would never notice his absences because she loved him too much to question him.

"I don't know what she knows about your personal activities, sir," Michael replied tactfully. "But I do not believe that is the primary reason she left the city today."

"Then what is it?!" Ethan erupted, the guilt and panic surging into uncontrollable rage. He slammed his left fist violently against the plaster wall. The impact was deafening. The plaster cracked instantly, spider-webbing outward from his knuckles, sending a dusting of white powder cascading onto his black tailored trousers.

"Mr. Blackwood!" Michael shouted through the phone, hearing the destruction.

"Stop playing games with me!" Ethan roared, keeping his fist pressed hard against the damaged wall, his face twisting with raw, unfiltered anger. The physical pain in his knuckles was nothing compared to the complete loss of control he was experiencing. He stared at the cracked wall, his chest heaving.

"I am running out of patience, Michael," Ethan growled through his teeth, his jaw locked. "I want her brought back to this house tonight. I don't care how much it costs. I don't care who you have to bribe."