Chapter 9 - THE WOMAN VINCENT BURIED EIGHTEEN YEARS AGO
Her name was Sofia Moretti.
Vincent had watched her coffin go into the ground when he was twenty-three.
Now she was drinking coffee in my grandmother’s kitchen.
This family needed fewer funerals.
We flew back immediately.
Vincent barely spoke.
When we entered the inn, Sofia stood.
Mother and son stared at each other.
No dramatic music.
No embrace.
Just eighteen years of pain.
“You’re alive,” Vincent said.
“Yes.”
“That is generally considered information a son should have.”
Sofia’s eyes filled.
“I know.”
“Why?”
She looked at Grandma.
“Because Frank Cavallo tried to kill me.”
Of course.
Sofia had discovered that Frank survived the old Dock 9 operation and rebuilt his organization through legitimate development companies.
She also discovered someone inside the Moretti family was helping him.
“Who?” Vincent asked.
“I didn’t know.”
“So you disappeared?”
“I had been poisoned once.”
My stomach tightened.
Like my mother.
Sofia continued.
“Anthony arranged my death.”
Vincent froze.
“My grandfather?”
“He saved me.”
“He let me believe you were dead.”
“Yes.”
Vincent turned away.
That betrayal hurt him.
I recognized it.
The dead protecting the living by destroying them emotionally.
A recurring family tradition.
Sofia stepped closer.
“I watched you from a distance.”
“That does not help.”
“I know.”
Good answer.
Then she looked at me.
“You’re Caroline’s daughter.”
“Yes.”
“You have her eyes.”
I swallowed.
“You knew my mother?”
“She saved my life.”
Silence.
“What?”
Sofia explained.
Caroline discovered Frank planned to poison Sofia.
She switched the glass.
Warned Anthony.
That was when Sofia disappeared.
My mother had been trying to undo her forced betrayal piece by piece.
I looked at Grandma.
“You knew this too?”
Grandma raised both hands.
“I am eighty-one. There are limits to what I can remember before coffee.”
Tess whispered:
“That is not a defense.”
Then Sofia noticed the ring.
Her eyes widened.
“Anthony’s key.”
Vincent nodded.
“We found the chapel ledger.”
“Only one?”
“Yes.”
She looked alarmed.
“There should be another.”
“The Bennett copy is missing.”
“No.”
She looked at me.
“The Bennett copy was never a ledger.”
“What was it?”
“A list of names.”
“Whose?”
“People Frank owned.”
Politicians.
Police.
Judges.
Federal agents.
Then Sofia said:
“And one Moretti.”
Vincent’s face hardened.
“Who?”
She looked at him.
“Your father.”
Silence.
Vincent’s father, Dominic Moretti, had died ten years earlier.
“You’re saying my father worked for Frank Cavallo?”
“Yes.”
Vincent laughed bitterly.
“No.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Proof?”
“Caroline had it.”
“Where?”
Sofia looked toward the orchard.
“Henry hid it somewhere Daisy would find only when the inn was about to be lost.”
I frowned.
“Why?”
“Because he believed losing the inn would force you to open the oldest family account.”
“What account?”
Grandma’s face changed.
“Oh.”
I turned.
“What now?”
She whispered:
“The emergency mortgage box.”
We kept one in the basement office.
Old records.
Deeds.
Insurance papers.
Grandpa’s handwritten budgets.
I opened it.
At the bottom sat a bankbook.
Account closed twenty-two years ago.
But the final transaction contained a safe-deposit number.
Again.
The bank vault was in town.
We arrived before closing.
Inside box 317:
One envelope.
One list.
And a birth certificate.
Vincent picked it up.
His hands stopped moving.
“What?”
He turned it toward me.
Father:
Dominic Moretti.
Mother:
Sofia Moretti.
Child:
Vincent Moretti.
Normal.
Until I saw the handwritten notation attached:
PATERNITY DISPUTED. DNA SAMPLE STORED.
Vincent stared at his mother.
“What does this mean?”
Sofia began crying.
“Dominic wasn’t your biological father.”
Vincent went completely still.
Then asked:
“Who was?”
Sofia looked at me.
And I suddenly knew I was going to hate the answer.
“Gabriel Bennett.”
May you like
My father.
The room stopped breathing.
