Chapter 3 - Secrets in the Shadows
The suite at the Four Seasons was dead silent, save for the rhythmic clicking of ice against crystal.
Vincent Moretti poured himself four fingers of Macallan, downed it in a single swallow, and slammed the heavy glass onto his desk. The mahogany cracked under the impact.
Across the room stood Dante Vane, his consigliere and deadliest enforcer. Dante had been with the Moretti syndicate for twenty years. He was the only man alive who could speak to Vincent without fear of having a bullet put through his skull.
“The DNA results from the hair sample will take twelve hours,” Dante said quietly, his hands folded across his tailored suit. “Though between you and me, boss… you don’t need a laboratory. The girl is your mirror image. She looks more like a Moretti than Lucas ever has.”
Vincent closed his eyes. The memory of the auditorium stage burned beneath his eyelids. Emily’s gray eyes. The slight tilt of her chin. The way she had held her head high despite the ocean of strangers staring down at her.
*“My hero is my mom.”*
The words tore through Vincent’s chest like shrapnel. For seven years, he had believed he was building an empire for the future. He had expanded the family’s shipping lines, diversified into real estate, created educational foundations—all in the name of legacy.
And all the while, his real legacy was growing up in some small town, eating cereal from chipped bowls, completely unaware of who her father was.
The door to the study swung open violently. Sophia stormed in, her silk robe trailing behind her. Her cheek was still red from Claire’s slap, and her eyes were manic with rage.
“You’re still sitting here?” she demanded, marching right up to the desk. “Marco says the board of trustees is calling an emergency session tomorrow morning! The press is calling Claire’s display a scandal! You need to release a statement immediately calling her an extortionist!”
Vincent didn’t move. He didn’t look at her.
“Lucas is asleep,” Sophia pressed, her voice rising an octave. “He was terrified tonight, Vincent! He heard what that little girl said. He asked me if he’s not your only son anymore! You have to think about our family!”
Slowly, Vincent lifted his head.
When Sophia met his eyes, the words died in her throat. She took an involuntary half-step backward.
There was no warmth in Vincent’s gaze. There was no affection, no familiarity—only a dark, fathomless abyss that usually signaled someone was about to die.
“Our family?” Vincent’s voice was barely a whisper, but it carried the weight of a guillotine. “You called Claire’s daughter a bastard tonight, Sophia.”
“She… she was out of line!” Sophia stammered, clutching her silk lapels together. “She ambushed you! She planned this to humiliate us!”
“Seven years ago,” Vincent said, rising from his chair. He towered over her, his broad shoulders blocking out the city lights behind him. “You went into labor at thirty-seven weeks. The exact same afternoon Claire went into labor at thirty-four.”
Sophia’s breath caught. Her eyes darted toward Dante, who remained completely motionless in the shadows.
“Dr. Harrison told me your placenta was detaching,” Vincent whispered, rounding the desk with the predatory grace of a wolf. “He said if I didn’t authorize an immediate emergency C-section and stay in the wing, both you and the baby would crash.”
“I… it was an emergency!” Sophia’s voice trembled. “You know that!”
“Dr. Harrison died in a hit-and-run two years ago,” Dante supplied smoothly from the corner. “A very convenient accident for someone who had just received three million dollars in offshore transfers from an account registered under the Reynolds family trust.”
Sophia’s face went chalk-white. Every drop of blood drained from her features.
“Vincent, no… you can’t believe this…”
“Get out,” Vincent said quietly.
“Vincent, please! I gave you Lucas! I stood by you while she ran away!”
“I said,” Vincent’s voice dropped into an explosive roar that rattled the floor-to-ceiling windows, “GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY SIGHT!”
Sophia turned and bolted, her sobs echoing down the marble hallway.
Vincent leaned heavily against his desk, his breathing ragged. He pulled a battered silver lighter from his pocket—an old gift from Claire on their third anniversary—and flicked the flame open and shut.
“Where are they, Dante?”
“The boutique hotel on Rush Street,” Dante replied immediately. “Madison Parker checked them in under an alias. They have train tickets booked for tomorrow morning back to Vermont.”
Vincent snuffed out the lighter.
May you like
“Lock down the train station. Lock down the airports,” Vincent commanded, grabbing his coat. “No one leaves this city. Not until I look my wife in the eye.”
***
