Chapter 4 - THE MOTHER WHO CONTROLLED EVERYTHINGVincent Moretti had never raised his voice at his mother.
Not when she insulted Claire's clothes.
Not when she questioned Claire's education.
Not when she referred to their marriage as an unfortunate arrangement.
But at eight the next morning, he walked into Evelyn Moretti's breakfast room and slammed a folder onto the table.
“Did you know?”
Evelyn calmly placed her coffee cup down.
“Good morning to you, too.”
“Did you know Claire was with Isabella when she died?”
His mother looked at the folder.
Then at him.
“Yes.”
Vincent felt something inside him fracture.
“How long?”
“Since the night of the accident.”
“Eleven years?”
“Vincent—”
“Eleven years?”
Evelyn sighed.
“You're being dramatic.”
He stared at her.
“My sister died. You knew who held her hand. And you let me spend years thanking the wrong woman.”
“Sophia was there too.”
“Sophia lied.”
His mother looked away.
That small movement told him everything.
“You helped her.”
“I protected this family.”
“From what?”
Evelyn stood.
“From a girl who heard something she wasn't supposed to hear.”
The room went silent.
Vincent slowly straightened.
“What did Claire hear?”
Evelyn's expression changed.
For the first time, she seemed to realize she had said too much.
“Nothing important.”
“Mother.”
“Isabella was emotional that night. She had been arguing with your father.”
Vincent frowned.
“My father was in New York.”
“That's what you were told.”
Vincent felt the floor shift beneath him.
His father, Anthony Moretti, had died five years earlier from a heart attack.
Vincent had inherited the family organization at thirty-two.
He had never questioned his father's absence on the night Isabella died.
“Why would Dad lie?”
Evelyn folded her hands.
“Your father made difficult decisions.”
“What decisions?”
“Decisions you wouldn't understand.”
Vincent leaned across the table.
“Did he have something to do with Isabella's death?”
Evelyn slapped him.
The sound echoed through the breakfast room.
Two guards appeared in the doorway.
Vincent didn't move.
His mother stared at him, horrified by what she had done.
“Don't ever accuse your father of that.”
Vincent slowly touched his cheek.
Then he looked toward the guards.
“Leave us.”
They disappeared.
He turned back.
“I'm going to ask you once more.”
Evelyn's eyes filled with tears.
But Vincent had learned something from Sophia.
Tears were not always evidence of innocence.
“Who ordered the surveillance on Claire?”
His mother stiffened.
“I don't know what you're talking about.”
“Someone has been following her.”
“She's no longer your wife.”
“That wasn't my question.”
Evelyn's expression hardened.
“Perhaps you should ask yourself why a woman who claims she wants nothing from you is visiting private clinics and speaking with lawyers.”
Vincent's heart began pounding.
“What do you know?”
Evelyn looked at him for a long moment.
Then she smiled.
It was a cold, terrible smile.
“More than you do.”
Meanwhile, across the city, I was packing.
My flight was at three.
Madison had arranged for someone to meet me at the airport.
She had also contacted a federal attorney she trusted.
But I hadn't told Vincent about the threat.
Not yet.
I was afraid whoever sent it might be watching.
At 10:15, I received a call from an unfamiliar number.
“Mrs. Bennett?”
“Yes?”
“This is Dr. Laura Mitchell's office.”
My stomach tightened.
“Is something wrong?”
“Your doctor would like you to come in before your flight.”
“Why?”
A pause.
“There's been an irregularity with your test results.”
My hand moved to my stomach.
“What kind of irregularity?”
“It's better discussed in person.”
I agreed to come immediately.
But when I arrived, Dr. Mitchell was waiting in the lobby.
Her expression frightened me.
“Claire, did someone call you this morning?”
“Yes.”
She went pale.
“We didn't call you.”
Before I could answer, a black SUV stopped outside the clinic.
Two men stepped out.
Dr. Mitchell grabbed my wrist.
“Come with me. Now.”
We ran through the rear hallway.
Behind us, the front doors opened.
A man's voice called my name.
“Claire Bennett!”
Dr. Mitchell shoved open an emergency exit.
“Run!”
I stumbled into the alley.
A hand caught my arm.
I screamed.
Then a familiar voice said, “Claire, it's me.”
Marco.
Vincent's security chief.
He looked behind me, gun drawn.
“Get in the car.”
I pulled away.
“Why should I trust you?”
Marco's face was grim.
May you like
“Because your ex-husband just found out who ordered Isabella's murder.”
And before I could ask another question, a gunshot shattered the clinic window.
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