Chapter 4 - VINCENT MORETTI
I met Vincent in a law office.
Public building.
Cameras.
Receptionist.
No backroom restaurant.
No armed men visible except Marcus sitting down the hall.
That mattered because I did not want to walk into his world simply because blood might connect us.
Vincent entered alone.
He removed his suit jacket.
Sat across from me.
No touching.
No hug.
Good.
“You knew my mother.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
He looked at the table.
“She worked at one of my father’s restaurants when she was twenty-two.”
“And?”
“They had a relationship.”
“My mother and Carlo Moretti.”
“Yes.”
“Was he married?”
Vincent paused.
“Yes.”
I laughed bitterly.
“Of course.”
“My mother was alive too.”
“Did she know?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you?”
“I was nine.”
That stopped me.
Vincent was only ten years older than me.
Carlo had fathered him young.
Then me later.
Possible.
Still surreal.
“When did you learn about Sofia?”
“When I was twenty-eight.”
“Why?”
“My father was dying.”
Carlo Moretti had died eleven years earlier.
Official cause:
Pancreatic cancer.
No conspiracy.
“He told you?”
“Parts.”
“What parts?”
“That there was a woman named Sofia. That she had a daughter he believed might be his. That she wanted nothing from him.”
“Did he know my name?”
“Yes.”
“Did he meet me?”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he wanted to. Sofia refused.”
My chest hurt.
“Why?”
Vincent’s expression tightened.
“Because of us.”
“What does that mean?”
“My family.”
“Crime?”
He held my stare.
“Yes.”
No glamor.
No denial.
“My father had legitimate businesses and criminal relationships. Sofia wanted you nowhere near either.”
“And you?”
“I inherited both problems.”
“Are you a criminal?”
Leah shifted slightly.
Vincent answered:
“I have been investigated for criminal conduct. I have not been convicted of the violent things newspapers like attaching to my name.”
Not exactly innocent.
Not exactly confession.
I did not push.
“This isn’t about you.”
“No.”
“Why did Mom give me your number?”
“Six years ago she called me.”
The year she died.
My heart stopped.
“What?”
“She was sick.”
Cancer.
Ovarian.
Stage four by diagnosis.
“She asked me to meet.”
“Where?”
“A diner near Providence.”
“Why didn’t she tell me?”
“She made me promise not to contact you.”
“But gave me your number.”
“She wanted you to choose.”
Choose.
Not inherit.
Not be summoned.
“She told me if you ever called, I should help you get safe and then tell you the truth only with independent counsel.”
I looked away.
That sounded exactly like Mom.
Controlling even after death.
Protective too.
“What truth?”
Vincent’s face hardened.
“We still need DNA.”
“Why are you avoiding the answer?”
“Because my father’s word is not enough.”
“And the trust?”
“Also needs verification.”
“What is in it?”
“Lena.”
“No.”
I leaned forward.
“I spent two years with a man who apparently found out before I did. I have a broken arm. I am sleeping in a confidential apartment. I want to know why.”
Vincent nodded once.
“Fair.”
He slid a sealed summary across the table.
“Carlo established a contingent trust.”
“How much?”
“Not the important part.”
“It is if Derek knew.”
Vincent hesitated.
“Initial funded assets were approximately four million dollars.”
I stared.
“That’s not real.”
“It is.”
“All for me?”
“No. Contingent. Invested. Subject to verification. Also tied to governance rights in legitimate Moretti family companies.”
“Governance rights.”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Sealed until identity verification.”
I stood.
“I’m done.”
Vincent did not stop me.
At the door he said:
“Lena.”
I turned.
“Derek did not start hurting you because of money.”
I hated that he knew what I was thinking.
“He started because he believed he had the right to control you.”
I said nothing.
“He may have stayed because he discovered money.”
That difference followed me home.
Then Detective Cole called.
They had found my blue folder.
Not in the apartment.
May you like
In Derek’s storage unit.
Alongside three blank power-of-attorney forms and a photocopy of my mother’s photograph with Carlo Moretti.
