Chapter 7 - Antonio Moretti’s Last NightWe listened together.
My mother.
Salvatore.
Emily.
Marco.
Me.
Even Lily sat quietly beside Emily, sensing the adults had entered a world where interruptions weren't welcome.
My father's voice filled the library.
“Isabella, if you're right, Nicholas is already compromised.”
My mother’s recorded voice answered.
“Then get him out.”
“I can't.”
“You can.”
“No. Because he'll come back.”
I closed my eyes.
Dad knew me too well.
The recording continued.
“They aren't trying to kill him,” Antonio said. “They're trying to make him unreliable.”
“Why?”
“Because Nicholas controls the voting trust.”
I opened my eyes.
“What voting trust?”
Salvatore looked away.
I stared at him.
“What?”
He sighed.
“Your grandfather created a hidden controlling trust. It activates under certain conditions.”
“What conditions?”
“The death or incapacity of Antonio's direct successor.”
Me.
“If I die?”
“Control disperses among seven trustees.”
“And if I'm declared medically incompetent?”
“The same.”
Everything became clear.
The board meeting.
The drugs.
The insomnia.
They didn't need my company shares.
They needed me removed legally.
I turned the recording back on.
My father's voice lowered.
“I know who's behind it.”
Everyone leaned forward.
Then—
Static.
The recording skipped.
Ten seconds were missing.
When sound returned, my mother was crying.
“You can't confront him alone.”
“I won't.”
“Antonio—”
“If anything happens, Daniel has everything.”
Recording ended.
I slammed my fist into the desk.
“Ten seconds.”
Marco examined the device.
“File was edited.”
“Can it be recovered?”
“Maybe.”
Emily looked at Daniel's materials.
“Daniel might have another copy.”
“Where?”
“I don't know.”
Lily raised her hand.
Six adults stared at her.
“What?” Emily asked.
“Daddy's song.”
Emily frowned.
“What song?”
“Bunny plays Daddy's song.”
She picked up the rabbit.
Emily looked confused.
“That toy doesn't play music.”
Lily squeezed its belly.
Nothing.
Then she squeezed the remaining ear.
A faint mechanical click sounded.
Marco took the rabbit.
Inside the stuffing was a tiny audio module.
Not a child's music player.
A recorder.
Daniel had hidden two things inside that battered rabbit.
The memory card.
And an audio backup.
Marco connected it.
Antonio’s voice returned.
This recording was longer.
Unedited.
We reached the missing section.
“I know who's behind it,” Dad said.
My mother's voice trembled.
“Who?”
Antonio answered.
“Charles Whitmore.”
Salvatore cursed.
I knew the name.
Everyone in New York did.
Charles Whitmore had been my father's attorney for thirty-two years.
He wrote our trusts.
Structured our companies.
Handled our estates.
And after my father's death, he became chairman of Moretti Holdings' legal committee.
He had been sitting three seats from Salvatore during yesterday's board meeting.
“Why?” I asked.
Salvatore looked sick.
“Because if the trust disperses, Whitmore becomes trustee.”
“One of seven.”
“No.”
Salvatore shook his head.
“Managing trustee.”
There it was.
Control.
Not crime.
Not revenge.
Forty years of patience for an empire.
Marco began making calls.
Whitmore's Manhattan apartment was empty.
His office too.
Private jet grounded.
Passport flagged.
Then Emily suddenly whispered, “Christmas.”
I turned.
“What?”
“What Lily heard.”
Salvatore had said I was getting harder.
Then something about Christmas.
Salvatore understood.
“The trust.”
“What happens at Christmas?”
He looked at me.
“Your fortieth birthday is December twenty-third.”
“Yes.”
“Your grandfather's trust expires when you turn forty.”
Silence.
Whitmore had nine weeks.
If he didn't remove me before then, he lost his chance forever.
My phone rang.
Charles Whitmore.
I answered on speaker.
“Nicholas.”
His voice was composed.
“Charles.”
“I imagine you've had an educational morning.”
“You killed my father.”
“That's an emotionally satisfying conclusion.”
“Is it wrong?”
He ignored the question.
“Antonio was stubborn.”
“So am I.”
“Yes.”
A faint laugh.
“That's why the medication had to become more aggressive.”
Emily's hand covered Lily's ear.
I felt rage climb through me.
“Vale worked for you.”
“Vale worked for money.”
“And DeLuca?”
“Same.”
“My uncle?”
“Salvatore was useful without realizing it.”
Salvatore's face darkened.
Whitmore continued.
“He stole enough money to make himself the perfect suspect.”
“You underestimated him.”
“I underestimated a toddler.”
Everyone looked at Lily.
She was trying to hear through Emily's hand.
Whitmore sighed.
“An embarrassing professional failure.”
“Where are you?”
“You know I won't answer.”
“No. But you called for something.”
Silence.
Then:
“The recorder.”
I looked at the device.
“You want it.”
“I want all copies.”
“And in exchange?”
“Your mother lives.”
My head snapped toward Isabella.
She frowned.
Whitmore laughed softly.
“You really think the woman standing beside you is Isabella?”
Nobody moved.
I stared at the woman who had claimed to be my mother.
She went pale.
Whitmore continued.
“Ask her what song your mother sang when you were afraid of thunderstorms.”
I turned.
“What song?”
She said nothing.
My heart dropped.
“What song?”
Tears filled her eyes.
“Nicholas—”
I stepped back.
“Who are you?”
She closed her eyes.
“My name is Sofia.”
Emily grabbed Lily and moved away.
Marco drew his weapon.
Sofia raised both hands.
“Your mother is my sister.”
My mind stopped.
“My aunt?”
“Yes.”
“Where is my mother?”
Her voice broke.
“Whitmore has her.”
“How long?”
“Three years.”
Exactly when my insomnia began.
Sofia whispered:
“Isabella came back because she learned Whitmore planned to target you.”
“And he took her.”
“Yes.”
“Why pretend to be her?”
“Because she made me promise that if anything happened, I would continue her investigation.”
I could barely look at her.
“You could have told me.”
“I was afraid.”
“Everyone keeps saying that.”
Then Lily slipped from Emily's arms.
She walked toward me.
Her tiny hand wrapped around two of my fingers.
I looked down.
“You look mad.”
“I am.”
“At me?”
“No.”
“Good.”
She leaned against my leg.
And somehow that small weight kept me standing.
Marco’s phone rang.
He listened.
Then looked at me.
“We found DeLuca.”
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
“Bring him in.”
“He's already talking.”
“Where's Whitmore?”
Marco's expression sharpened.
“He doesn't know.”
May you like
“Then what does he know?”
“Where they've been keeping your mother.”
