Chapter 12 - THE LAST LIE OF THE MORETTI EMPIRE
The forged message had been placed inside my father's safe years after his death.
That was the conclusion of the document examination.
The photograph was genuine.
The first sentence was Antonio's handwriting.
The second wasn't.
Someone had added it later.
Someone who wanted me to distrust Isabella.
I stared at the report.
"Who had access to the safe?"
Rebecca opened another file.
"Marco Bellini."
My stomach tightened.
Again.
Marco had been the man who comforted me after my father's death.
The man who encouraged me to become ruthless.
The man who told me trusting anyone was weakness.
And now it appeared he'd been planting lies for decades.
Rebecca continued.
"Investigators recovered communications suggesting Marco was concerned Isabella would uncover the old trust records."
I nodded.
"And Valentina?"
"Her involvement appears to have been arranged partly to distract you."
I closed my eyes.
For a moment, I thought about the nine months I'd spent with her.
The lies I'd told.
The arrogance.
The way I blamed Isabella for asking questions.
Marco hadn't forced me to cheat.
Carlo hadn't forced me to lie.
Valentina hadn't forced me to betray my vows.
They created opportunities.
I made the choices.
That distinction mattered.
I refused to use the conspiracy as an excuse for my affair.
Rebecca looked toward me.
"Dante, are you okay?"
I shook my head.
"No."
Then I added, "But I'm finally understanding what happened."
Marco's case continued through the courts.
Richard Salvatore cooperated with investigators.
Carlo Russo's financial network was dismantled.
And the old charitable funds were placed under independent administration.
Some stolen assets were recovered.
Others remained disputed.
Several families received restitution.
Lucia and Sofia continued rebuilding their relationship.
Not magically.
Not without painful questions.
But honestly.
I received occasional updates through Rebecca.
Isabella was helping create a nonprofit organization supporting people affected by fraudulent medical records and family separation.
She'd returned to using Romano professionally.
And she seemed happier.
That last part hurt.
But I was learning that loving her meant wanting her happiness even when I wasn't the reason for it.
Then something unexpected happened.
Isabella called me.
Not through an attorney.
Directly.
I answered immediately.
"Isabella?"
"Hello, Dante."
Her voice was soft.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then she said, "I heard about the Moretti businesses."
I swallowed.
"Most of the criminal operations are gone."
"I know."
"And the legal review continues."
"I know that too."
I stared toward the window.
"Why did you call?"
A pause.
Then she answered.
"Because Lucia wants to thank you."
I closed my eyes.
"She doesn't owe me anything."
"She knows."
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Isabella said something that made my chest tighten.
"I've been watching what you've done."
I swallowed.
"Isabella—"
"Don't misunderstand."
Her voice remained steady.
"I'm not calling because I want to come home."
I nodded, even though she couldn't see me.
"I know."
"But I wanted you to understand something."
"What?"
"The man I married would've tried to solve this with fear."
I closed my eyes.
"And?"
"The man you are now is learning how to listen."
For several seconds, I couldn't speak.
Then I whispered, "I'm trying."
"I know."
That night, after the call ended, I sat alone for a long time.
For the first time since Isabella left, I didn't reach for a drink.
Didn't call Gabriel.
Didn't order someone to fix the problem.
I simply allowed myself to feel the grief I'd spent years avoiding.
And then I made a decision.
I wasn't going to spend the rest of my life trying to recover the past.
I was going to build a future worthy of living.
Even if Isabella never returned.
But the next morning, a letter arrived from her.
Inside was a single photograph.
Our wedding day.
Eleven years earlier.
Beneath it, she'd written:
May you like
I don't know whether love can survive what happened.
But I no longer believe people are incapable of change.
