Chapter 4 - MY MOTHER’S SECOND FAMILY
I went home before dawn.
My mother was waiting.
Of course.
Isabella Moretti sat in the library wearing a dark robe, silver hair pinned neatly back.
No fear.
No surprise.
Just tiredness.
“You found the letter.”
I stopped.
“You knew she left one.”
“Yes.”
I stared.
“Is Alessandra alive?”
Mother closed her eyes.
“Yes.”
I nearly crossed the room and overturned the table.
Instead:
“Where?”
“I don’t know now.”
“Wrong answer.”
“It is the truth.”
“You let me bury a stranger.”
Her face broke.
“Yes.”
“You let me mourn my sister while knowing she was alive.”
“Yes.”
I laughed.
My own voice sounded wrong.
“Why?”
“To keep you alive.”
I slammed my fist into the desk.
“STOP SAYING THAT.”
She flinched.
Good.
“Everyone lies, steals, drugs people, hides bodies, and then says it was to protect me.”
I leaned forward.
“I’m not grateful.”
“You shouldn’t be.”
That stopped me.
Mother stood.
“Your father discovered the laundering eleven years ago.”
“Who was doing it?”
“Dominic.”
“I know that.”
“No.”
She shook her head.
“Dominic was moving the money.”
“Then who owned it?”
She looked at me.
“The Bellaforte organization.”
I knew the name.
Everyone did.
An old criminal network disguised through construction, ports, and finance.
Our company had spent decades pretending it had no relationship with them.
Apparently that was another lie.
Mother continued.
“Your father wanted out.”
“So they killed him?”
“No.”
She whispered:
“He killed himself.”
Silence.
I stared.
“No.”
His death had been ruled a stroke.
“He took medication.”
“Why?”
“Because Bellaforte threatened Alessandra.”
My chest tightened.
“Why her?”
“She found out.”
Always Alessandra.
Too curious.
Too brave.
Too unwilling to accept family silence.
Mother looked toward the fireplace.
“Your father believed his death would satisfy the agreement.”
“Did it?”
“For two years.”
Then Alessandra found Maria.
Financial records.
Proof Dominic never stopped.
“She was going to expose him.”
“Yes.”
“So you let them take her.”
Mother started crying.
“I begged Dominic not to kill her.”
My skin went cold.
“That’s your defense?”
“No.”
She shook her head.
“It is my confession.”
For eight years, Alessandra had been hidden in “treatment” facilities under false diagnoses.
Sedated.
Moved.
Controlled.
Because killing a Moretti daughter would trigger questions.
Making her look unstable was easier.
“Who signed the medical guardianship?”
Mother whispered:
“I did.”
I stepped back.
That hurt differently.
“You signed my sister away.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Dominic said the alternative was death.”
“And you believed him.”
“Yes.”
“Did you ever visit her?”
Mother looked away.
Once.
Five years earlier.
Boston.
The same year Thomas saw her.
“She begged me to tell you.”
Mother sobbed.
“I couldn’t.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Yes.”
At least she stopped softening it.
I asked:
“Who moved her three weeks ago?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who controls the facilities?”
“Victor arranged them.”
“He’s in custody.”
“Then someone else took over.”
“Who?”
She hesitated.
That tiny pause.
I saw it.
“Mother.”
“Marco.”
I froze.
“No.”
“He contacted me yesterday.”
My cousin.
The man who cried.
The man claiming he didn’t know Alessandra survived.
“He knows where she is?”
“I think so.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“He threatened Sophie.”
That surprised me.
“What?”
“He knows Elena kept evidence.”
My blood went cold.
Sophie.
Four years old.
The child who carried the tape.
I called security.
“Elena and Sophie?”
A pause.
Then:
“They left thirty minutes ago.”
“What?”
“Elena said you ordered a car.”
I hadn’t.
I ran.
Elena’s room was empty.
One suitcase gone.
Sophie’s red rain boots gone.
On the bed:
A note.
MR. MORETTI, A MAN SAID YOU NEEDED US MOVED FOR SAFETY. I’M SORRY IF I MISUNDERSTOOD. — ELENA
I called Marco.
He answered.
“Luca.”
“Where are they?”
Silence.
“WHERE ARE THEY?”
“I needed leverage.”
My vision went red.
“If you touch that child—”
“I’m not going to hurt anyone.”
“Where?”
“Bring the tape.”
“You already know what’s on it.”
“Not that tape.”
I froze.
“What?”
“Elena had three.”
My stomach dropped.
“You want the missing one.”
“The boiler-room tape.”
“I don’t have it.”
“Yes, you do.”
“No.”
Marco laughed bitterly.
“Ask your mother.”
I turned toward Isabella.
She had gone white.
“Mother?”
Marco continued through the phone.
“She found it six years ago.”
I stared.
Mother said nothing.
“What is on it?”
Marco’s voice lowered.
“The part nobody wants you to see.”
“What part?”
“The night your father died.”
My hand tightened around the phone.
“You said Dad killed himself.”
Mother whispered:
“I thought he did.”
Marco laughed.
“That’s what Dominic told everyone.”
Then:
“Bring me the tape or Elena and Sophie stay where they are.”
I looked at my mother.
“Where is it?”
She closed her eyes.
Then whispered:
May you like
“Inside your father’s mausoleum.”
For six years, the evidence had been hidden beside the man whose death it could explain.
