Chapter 6 - Luca Moretti Discovers His Family Tree Is a Crime Scene
Silvio disconnected before Luca could trace the call.
His mother disappeared at the same time.
For forty-eight hours, the Moretti estate turned into a command center.
Police were not called.
Luca trusted approximately six people.
After recent developments, that number had become four and a half.
The half was Vincent, who was recovering from being stabbed and irritating everyone with medical opinions he had acquired online.
Elena refused to leave.
“You have Mia.”
“So?”
“So someone is trying to kill you.”
“They were already trying before I met you.”
“That is not comforting.”
“I wasn’t aiming for comforting.”
Luca rubbed both hands over his face.
She watched him.
He had not shaved.
He had forgotten meals.
His mother was missing, his dead uncle was apparently alive, and documents suggested the woman who raised him had once been married to that uncle.
Elena quietly placed a sandwich beside him.
“I’m not hungry.”
“Eat.”
He looked up.
“Are you ordering me?”
“Mia promoted me.”
“To what?”
“Food police.”
He almost smiled.
Then ate.
That was how their relationship changed.
Not with confessions.
With sandwiches.
With Elena leaving coffee beside his hand before he asked.
With Luca quietly doubling security outside Mia’s room.
With both of them pretending those things meant nothing.
The tapes from the greenhouse revealed fragments.
Antonio’s voice appeared on some.
Samuel Ward on others.
The two men had recorded meetings because neither trusted anyone.
One tape changed everything.
Antonio spoke:
“If Silvio discovers Sofia gave me the documents, he will kill her.”
Samuel answered.
“She chose you.”
“No. She chose Luca.”
Silence.
“He’s my son.”
Samuel’s voice softened.
“Antonio…”
“My son. Whatever happened before does not matter.”
Luca stopped the tape.
Elena sat beside him.
He stared at the recorder.
“What does that mean?”
She knew.
So did he.
Neither wanted to say it.
Silvio might be Luca’s biological father.
Antonio had raised him anyway.
Loved him anyway.
Possibly died protecting him.
Luca stood suddenly and crossed the room.
Elena let him.
His entire identity had been built around one belief:
He was Antonio Moretti’s son.
Every brutal decision he had justified by inheritance.
Every compromise.
Every crime.
This is what my father left me.
Now even that certainty had collapsed.
“What if everything I became was based on a lie?”
Elena answered quietly.
“Then you get the terrifying privilege of deciding who you are without it.”
He looked at her.
She understood identity built from survival.
Maybe better than anyone.
“My father hurt people.”
“Yes.”
“So have I.”
“Yes.”
He almost laughed.
“You’re terrible at reassurance.”
“I’m excellent at honesty.”
“What if I’m like Silvio?”
Elena stood.
“You worried about whether Mia ate breakfast yesterday.”
He blinked.
“That’s your evidence?”
“You threatened a chef over pancakes.”
“The pancakes were undercooked.”
“You had him remake them.”
“A reasonable consequence.”
“You didn’t shoot him.”
“Your standards for me are offensive.”
She smiled.
Then became serious.
“You are not good because you’ve never done terrible things, Luca.”
He watched her.
“You’re good every time you choose not to become worse.”
That stayed with him.
Downstairs, Mia created a legal crisis.
She had found Luca’s stamp.
Not an ordinary stamp.
His signature stamp used for internal documents.
By the time Elena discovered her, Mia had stamped thirty-three pieces of paper.
One was a grocery list.
One was a drawing of a horse.
One was Vincent’s expense report.
And one was an employment contract.
Jonah stared at it.
“Mia has apparently hired herself.”
Luca examined the paper.
Salary requested: twelve cookies.
Position: Boss.
He signed.
Elena stared.
“You cannot encourage this.”
“I negotiated her down from twenty.”
“You’re insane.”
“She has strong bargaining instincts.”
Mia climbed onto his lap.
“Do I get insurance?”
Everyone turned.
Elena narrowed her eyes.
“Who taught you that word?”
Vincent raised his hand.
Luca expelled him from the room.
For several minutes, normality returned.
Then Mason Reed, the security chief, entered.
“We found Sofia.”
Luca stood.
“Where?”
“She walked into one of our Manhattan properties twenty minutes ago.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“Bring the car.”
Sofia refused extraction.
She insisted Luca come personally.
He did.
Elena came too.
“You’re staying in the car.”
“No.”
“Elena.”
“No.”
“That argument lacks depth.”
“So does yours.”
He gave up.
Sofia waited in an empty penthouse overlooking Central Park.
She looked composed.
Too composed.
Luca entered first.
“Where is Silvio?”
Sofia smiled sadly.
“Still direct.”
“Mother.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Am I his son?”
Elena stopped behind him.
Sofia’s face broke.
That was answer enough.
Luca stepped backward.
For forty-one years Sofia Moretti had rarely cried.
Now tears fell silently.
“Yes.”
Luca closed his eyes.
Sofia explained.
She had married Silvio at nineteen.
He was charming.
Brilliant.
Cruel in ways that arrived slowly.
Antonio helped her escape.
Months later, she discovered she was pregnant.
Antonio married her and claimed Luca publicly as his own.
“Did he love me?”
Sofia looked offended.
“More than his own life.”
Luca’s throat tightened.
“Then why hide this?”
“To protect you.”
“From whom?”
A door opened behind them.
A man stepped from the shadows.
Silver-haired.
Tall.
Luca recognized his own eyes.
Silvio Moretti smiled.
“From me.”
Luca reached for his weapon.
Silvio raised empty hands.
“If I wanted you dead, son, you’d already be dead.”
Luca’s jaw tightened.
“Don’t call me that.”
Silvio’s smile widened.
Then he looked at Elena.
Recognition appeared.
“Samuel’s girl.”
Elena stepped closer to Luca.
Silvio nodded approvingly.
“Interesting.”
“What?” Luca demanded.
“The same mistake your father made.”
“My father was Antonio.”
For the first time, Silvio’s smile disappeared.
Then he said:
“Good.”
Everyone froze.
Silvio walked toward the window.
“Because Antonio wasn’t murdered by me.”
He turned.
“He was murdered by the woman standing behind you.”
Luca turned slowly.
May you like
Sofia was holding a gun.
And it was pointed directly at Elena.
