Chapter 2 - THE BROKEN ARM
The orthopedic surgeon called it a displaced fracture.
Not catastrophic.
Not permanent.
Still serious.
My arm would heal.
Six weeks in a cast.
Physical therapy afterward.
Maybe lingering weakness.
The doctor documented everything.
Bruising on my upper arm.
Older fading marks near my ribs.
A small cut near my eyebrow.
No head injury.
No internal injuries.
Detective Rachel Cole asked:
“Did Derek cause the older bruises?”
I looked at the wall.
“Yes.”
“How often has he hit you?”
“He doesn’t usually punch.”
Rachel waited.
That sentence sounded exactly like what it was.
An excuse.
“He grabs,” I corrected. “Shoves. Throws things.”
“Ever choke you?”
“No.”
“Threaten with weapons?”
“No.”
“Threaten to kill you?”
“Once he said I’d be sorry if I left.”
“Exact words?”
I repeated them.
She wrote.
No dramatics.
No:
Why didn’t you leave?
Good.
Derek was arraigned the next morning.
Charges included felony domestic assault causing serious bodily injury, unlawful restraint, and property damage.
No attempted murder.
No kidnapping theory beyond what evidence supported.
Protective order.
No contact.
No returning to the apartment while I remained there.
I did not remain.
Vincent offered one of his properties.
I refused.
“I don’t know you.”
He nodded.
“Correct.”
That answer surprised me.
He booked nothing on my behalf.
Instead, victim services placed me in a confidential extended-stay apartment through a local domestic-violence program.
Vincent’s security team did not know the address.
At my request.
He respected it.
That mattered.
The pendant went with me.
So did the old phone.
My restaurant manager gave me medical leave.
I expected judgment.
Instead, Carmen hugged me carefully.
“You should’ve told me.”
“I thought I could handle it.”
“Everyone thinks that until handling becomes surviving.”
I cried in the employee office.
For the next three days, I slept twelve hours at a time.
Then woke frightened.
Every knock sounded like Derek.
Every phone notification made my stomach tighten.
My therapist from the advocacy center, Dr. Maya Chen, asked:
“What scares you more—Derek finding you or Vincent knowing where you are?”
I thought.
“Vincent.”
“Why?”
“Because Derek is obvious now.”
“And Vincent?”
“I don’t know what he wants.”
Good question.
Vincent sent one message through Leah Morgan, an attorney he asked to contact me.
Not his lawyer.
A separate attorney.
His message:
Sofia asked me years ago never to approach Lena unless Lena approached first. I will honor that now too. If she wants answers, Leah has the records I am legally permitted to provide.
That made everything worse.
My mother had known him.
Not casually.
Enough to make rules.
I met Leah in a conference room with Maya available by phone.
No Vincent.
Leah placed one envelope on the table.
“Before I show you anything, I need to explain the limits.”
“Okay.”
“Vincent Moretti is a person of interest in several ongoing law-enforcement investigations unrelated to you.”
My stomach turned.
“He’s actually—”
“I am not characterizing allegations beyond public facts.”
Professional.
Good.
“He is also president of several legitimate Moretti family businesses.”
“Restaurants?”
“Among other things.”
“And my mother?”
Leah opened the envelope.
A photograph.
My mother at twenty-three.
Younger than I had ever known her.
Beside her stood a man I recognized from old newspaper articles.
Carlo Moretti.
Vincent’s father.
Both smiling.
Not formal.
Close.
Behind the photograph, Sofia had written:
Summer before Lena.
My hands went cold.
“What does that mean?”
Leah did not answer.
Instead:
“We need independent DNA before anyone makes conclusions.”
“DNA with Vincent?”
“If you consent.”
“Why?”
“Because certain archived records suggest you and Vincent may share a biological parent.”
The room tilted.
I laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because impossible things sometimes sound ridiculous before they become terrifying.
“My mother would’ve told me.”
“Maybe.”
“She hated criminals.”
Leah said nothing.
“What does Derek have to do with this?”
“We don’t know yet.”
Then she showed me the certified-mail record.
First Commonwealth had sent a beneficiary verification packet three months earlier.
Delivered.
Signed for.
Not by me.
Signature:
D. Hale.
Derek.
May you like
He had taken it.
And never told me.
