Chapter 43: The Path is Claire

[Claire’s POV]

I’m smiling. The world feels lighter today than it has in months. My two-month chip feels even heavier in my hand than my 30-day one did. Like it actually means something. Like I’m actually accomplishing something real for the first time in years.

As I head into the guest room for my visitor, my stomach does a little flip. Hopefully I’m not meeting with Caterina this time. The memory of Adam in that racing helmet, broken and drugged, has haunted my dreams every night since I saw him. It’s been the fuel keeping me sober these last thirty days. Every time I’ve felt the itch to find a card game, I’ve seen his helmet-covered head bobbing in that mechanical nod.

I get into the room and scan the faces, expecting to see anyone i know. Instead, my gaze lands on a woman I don’t recognize sitting at a table near the window. Tall, imposing, with long black hair and striking green eyes. She wears a bright green Hawaiian shirt that should look ridiculous but somehow doesn’t. A golden cross glints at her throat.

She waves me down with a bright smile. “Claire, yes?” Her voice carries across the room, confident and cheerful.

I hesitate, something primal in my brain setting off alarm bells. This woman gives off the same dangerous energy as Caterina, just packaged differently. Like comparing a tiger to a panther, different stripes, same teeth.

I sit down across from her, nervously fiddling with my sobriety chip. “Hello.”

“Luna Cruz,” she says, extending her hand across the table. Her grip is firm, her tan skin warm against mine. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”

The cross necklace catches the fluorescent lights as she leans forward, her smile never quite reaching those piercing green eyes.

“So, how’s recovery treating you?” Luna asks, glancing at the chip I’m still turning over in my hand. “Two months is impressive. Most people don’t make it this far.”

‘God, everyone just knows everything.’

I tuck the chip into my pocket, suddenly self-conscious. “It’s been... challenging. But worth it.”

Luna nods sympathetically, though something in her expression suggests she’s never faced a challenge she couldn’t immediately crush underfoot. “Addiction is a beast. My sister struggled with it for years before finding her way.” She taps her cross. “Through faith and family support.”

The casual mention of family makes me flinch internally. My own family washed their hands of me after the third time I stole from them to fund my gambling.

“That’s nice,” I say lamely, still trying to figure out why this stranger wanted to meet me. “I’m sorry, but have we met before? I don’t remember…”

“You’re married to Adam Anderson, right? Mrs. Claire Anderson?” Luna interrupts her tone suddenly direct.

I blink, taken aback by the abrupt shift. “Correct. Yes.”

Luna leans forward, her green eyes intense and calculating. There’s something predatory in her gaze that reminds me uncomfortably of Caterina.

“Well, listen,” she says, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “I looked into it, and I’ve got an idea of the deal you made with Caterina, and I have to assume you would like to get your husband back, correct?”

My heart skips a beat. I glance around the visiting room, suddenly paranoid that Caterina might have other eyes and ears here. The orderly by the door seems absorbed in his phone, and the other visitors are engaged in their own conversations.

“I don’t think that’s possible,” I whisper, leaning closer despite myself.

Luna leans back in her chair. She spreads her hands wide, a grin spreading across her face that reminds me of a shark that’s just spotted blood in the water.

“Nah, it’s definitely possible,” she says with absolute certainty as if we’re discussing something as simple as changing a lightbulb rather than extracting my husband from the clutches of Boston’s most feared criminal.

My heart hammers in my chest, hope and suspicion warring within me. “What do you want?” I ask bluntly.

Luna’s green eyes gleam as she studies me, her fingers absently playing with the golden cross at her neck. “You’re going back to work after this at the casino, right? La Reale?”

I nod solemnly. “Yeah, Caterina sent the papers the other day. I assumed I’d be fired after this was said and done, but she seems to be letting me keep my job for now.”

The revelation shocked me when the rehab counselor handed me the envelope last week. Inside was a letter on La Reale’s expensive letterhead confirming my position would be held for me upon completion of my treatment program. I couldn’t figure out why Caterina would want me back, especially after showing me what she’d done to Adam.

Luna’s smile widens, something dark and calculating flickering behind her eyes. She leans forward, lowering her voice to barely above a whisper.

“Fantastic, wonderful even,” she says, her tone dripping with satisfaction. “I’m simply looking to have a little birdy feed me info. You can do that, can’t you?”

The request hangs between us, deceptively simple yet laden with danger. Being Luna’s informant could get me killed.

“How would you get my Adam back?” I ask, trying to keep the desperate hope from my voice.

She flashes me a confident look, one perfectly shaped eyebrow arching upward. Her hand comes down to cover mine, her skin warm and dry, her grip just a little too tight to be comforting.

“Let me worry about that,” Luna says, her voice soft but edged with steel. “But I promise on my mother, when I’m through with Caterina, Adam is all yours.”

With all the awful things I’ve done to Adam, this seems like God is giving me a lifeline. The universe doesn’t usually offer second chances to people like me, addicts who sell their husbands to pay gambling debts. But here it is, dressed like a Latina Antonia Montana and offering me exactly what I need.

I stare at Luna’s outstretched hand.

“If I help you,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper, “I want guarantees. I need to know Adam will be safe.”

Luna’s smile doesn’t waver. “Of course. My word is my bond.” Her fingers tap against the golden cross at her throat. “I swear it.”

The memory of Adam in that helmet flashes through my mind again, the mechanical nod, the flat voice, the way he swayed like a puppet with half its strings cut. Whatever Caterina’s done to him goes beyond broken hands. She’s destroyed something inside him, something essential.

‘He was like a husk.’

Luna’s green eyes gleam with something that might be understanding or might be triumph. It’s hard to tell the difference with women like her.

“So we have a deal?” she asks, her hand still extended between us, patient and inevitable.

I take a deep breath. “Okay.”

I hold out my hand, and Luna seems almost surprised how easy it was to convince me. Maybe she expected more resistance, more questions. But she doesn’t understand the weight of guilt I carry, doesn’t know how the image of Adam’s broken hands keeps me awake at night.

She grips my hand tightly, her skin warm and dry against mine. Our eyes lock, and in that moment, I can just tell, this is a deal with the devil. Maybe not the same devil as Caterina, but a devil nonetheless. The kind that smiles while she cuts your throat.

“Wonderful,” Luna says, releasing my hand. “I knew you were a smart woman, Claire.”

“I’m not smart,” I reply, rubbing my palm against my jeans. “I’m desperate.”

Luna laughs, the sound bright and genuine in a way that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. “Desperation is an excellent motivator. Better than money, better than loyalty.”

Luna reaches into her garish Hawaiian shirt pocket and pulls out a small flip phone, the kind I haven’t seen since 2005. It’s black, nondescript, the perfect burner. She slides it across the table to me with a casual flick of her wrist, like she’s passing a business card instead of evidence of a conspiracy.

“When you get out of here, give me a call,” she says, tapping the phone with one perfectly manicured nail. “I’ll give you instructions.”

I pick up the phone, its plastic casing weird against my fingers. I slip it into my pocket quickly.

“Okay,” I whisper, the word barely audible even to my own ears.

Luna rises from her chair in one fluid motion, towering over me. Her smile stretches wider, revealing teeth too white, too perfect.

“Head up, girl,” she says, her sweet as sugar but her eyes cold as winter. “Change is on the way.”

Clairillionaire: