Chapter 8 - THE FIANCÉE'S LAST GAME
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Vincent was discharged two days later.
I met him at the estate because we needed to compare the evidence before Vanessa could destroy it.
He looked thinner, paler, and angrier than I had ever seen him. His wound forced him to move carefully, but the moment he saw me, his expression softened.
“Thank you for coming.”
“I'm here for the truth.”
“I know.”
We sat across from each other in his study, the original ledger between us.
For the first time, we spoke without pretending our feelings could solve the problem.
“I won't ask you to forgive me for something I didn't know,” Vincent said. “But I won't let anyone use our families' secrets to control your life.”
“Good.”
“And if the evidence proves we're related—”
“We'll deal with that when we have facts.”
He nodded.
It was the right answer.
We began with the birth records. The original hospital registry listed two babies delivered within twenty minutes of each other: one born to Elizabeth Mitchell, the other to an unidentified woman whose admission had been paid for by Anthony Moretti.
Both entries had been crossed out and rewritten.
A handwritten note beside the second entry read: TRANSFER AUTHORIZED BY S. PRICE.
The doctor had changed the records.
But why?
I studied the ledger again. The same silver-ring symbol appeared beside several payments made to a private security company.
Vincent recognized it.
“That's the emblem of the old Moretti inner circle. My father used it to identify people who were trusted with family secrets.”
“Who wore the ring?”
“Anthony. Thomas Reed. And a man named Malcolm Voss.”
Vincent's face darkened.
“Voss was my father's lawyer. He vanished after Anthony died.”
I found a newspaper clipping in the archive. Malcolm Voss had supposedly drowned during a fishing trip twenty years earlier.
Another dead man.
Another convenient disappearance.
We traced the company listed in the ledger to a warehouse near the Hudson River. Vincent wanted to send his men first, but I insisted on going with him.
“This is about my mother,” I said. “I'm not staying behind while other people decide what I can handle.”
He looked at me for a long moment.
“Then we go together.”
The warehouse was empty except for a desk, a locked filing cabinet, and a wall covered in photographs.
My mother's photograph hung in the center.
Beside it was a photograph of Isabella.
And beside that was a picture of Vincent as a newborn, held by a woman whose face had been scratched out.
Someone had written a date beneath each photograph.
The dates corresponded to the births, accidents, and deaths that had shaped our lives.
On the desk lay a silver ring.
I picked it up.
Inside the band were the initials M.V.
“Malcolm Voss,” Vincent said.
A speaker crackled above us.
“Very good, Mr. Moretti.”
The voice belonged to an older man.
“It's been a long time since anyone in your family solved a problem without using a gun.”
Vincent looked toward the ceiling.
“Voss. Where is Isabella?”
“Alive. For now.”
“What do you want?”
“The ledger. The recording. And the girl.”
I stepped closer to the speaker.
“I'm standing right here.”
The man chuckled.
“Elizabeth's daughter. You have her courage.”
“You knew my mother?”
“I knew what she was trying to protect.”
“Then tell me who my father was.”
A pause.
“Your mother loved Richard Cole. Anthony Moretti hated him. When Richard was murdered, Anthony took his infant son and raised him as his own. He believed that if he controlled the boy, he could control Richard's legacy.”
Vincent's face went rigid.
“And Grace?”
“Elizabeth was pregnant when Richard died. Anthony wanted the child because she was the only living person who could establish Richard's biological line.”
I felt sick.
“So Anthony arranged my mother's life around a lie?”
“He arranged many lives around lies.”
“Why did he try to kill me?”
“Because Elizabeth discovered the original records and refused to surrender them. Anthony decided that if you died, the evidence would disappear with you.”
The speaker clicked off.
A red light began blinking on the desk.
Vincent grabbed my hand.
“Move!”
The warehouse's alarm began screaming. Somewhere outside, engines roared to life.
We ran through a side exit as smoke rose from the rear of the building. Vincent's guards met us at the gate, and we escaped before the fire reached the office.
But the evidence was gone.
The ledger had been taken.
So had the recording.
Only the silver ring remained in my pocket.
Back at the estate, Vincent received a video message.
Isabella sat tied to a chair in a dimly lit room.
A man stood behind her.
His face was hidden, but his voice was unmistakable.
“Bring Grace to the old Moretti chapel tomorrow night. Come alone, or Isabella dies.”
The message ended with a close-up of Isabella's hand.
She wore a wedding ring.
Vincent stared at the screen.
“That ring belonged to my mother.”
I looked at him.
“Your mother?”
He nodded slowly.
“My mother died when I was five.”
Then he noticed something in the background of the video.
A carved wooden angel.
I recognized it from a photograph in my mother's belongings.
The chapel wasn't an old Moretti property.
May you like
It was the chapel where my mother had married Richard Cole.
And someone had kept it hidden for twenty-five years.
