Chapter 3 - THE WOMAN IN ELENA MORETTI'S GRAVE
We reached Saint Michael’s Cemetery shortly before dawn.
Snow covered the rows of headstones.
Plot 317 belonged to Elena Maria Moretti.
Beloved Wife.
Devoted Mother.
1958–2001.
Vincent stood before the grave in silence.
He had been thirteen when the family told him his mother died after a long illness overseas.
He had not been allowed to see the body.
Now every detail looked suspicious.
The grave was opened under emergency authorization after evidence from Belladonna House suggested a homicide investigation.
I stood beside Vincent while forensic technicians worked.
Vivian remained with investigators.
Maria waited in a heated car.
Hours passed.
Finally, Detective Gabriel Russo approached.
“This is preliminary.”
Vincent’s jaw tightened.
“Say it.”
“The remains appear female.”
“Age?”
“Approximately late twenties to early thirties.”
Elena would have been forty-three.
My stomach dropped.
“Not my mother,” Vincent said.
“Probably not.”
“What else?”
Russo hesitated.
“The skull shows evidence of trauma.”
I looked away.
Vincent didn’t.
“Identity?”
“Not yet.”
Then a technician carried over a sealed evidence bag.
Inside was a ring.
I knew it immediately.
My mother owned its twin.
A plain gold band engraved inside:
T.R.
My breath disappeared.
“No.”
Russo looked at me.
“You recognize it?”
“My mother.”
Vincent turned sharply.
“No.”
“She wore one exactly like that.”
But Teresa was supposedly alive.
Vivian said Carlo found her three months ago.
Had she lied?
Russo examined the engraving.
“It could belong to someone else.”
I shook my head.
“My father’s initials were R.R. Her initials were T.R. She told me he gave it to her.”
“What was your father’s name?”
“Robert Romano.”
Maria, who had approached behind us, made a strange sound.
I turned.
“What?”
She looked terrified.
“Robert Romano didn’t exist.”
The world tilted again.
“What are you talking about?”
Maria’s eyes filled.
“Teresa was never married.”
“Yes, she was.”
“My father died when I was two.”
“That is what she told you.”
I stepped closer.
“Then who was my father?”
Maria looked at Vincent.
Then away.
“Maria.”
“I promised Teresa.”
“Twenty-eight years ago.”
“She was trying to protect you.”
“From what?”
Maria started crying.
Vincent’s face changed.
He understood before I did.
“No.”
Maria covered her mouth.
I stared at him.
“What?”
He shook his head once.
“Nothing.”
“Vincent.”
Maria whispered, “Antonio.”
My hearing seemed to disappear.
“What?”
“Antonio Moretti was your father.”
Silence.
No.
Impossible.
Vincent was staring at me with the same horror I felt.
Antonio Moretti.
His father.
My father.
That would make Vincent—
“My brother.”
The words barely came out.
Maria nodded.
“Half brother.”
I stepped backward.
For a moment, every guest at the engagement party, every insult Vivian threw at me, every look Vincent gave the locket became insignificant.
I had walked into Belladonna House as a temporary maid.
I was standing beside the man who might be my brother.
“Did Elena know?” Vincent asked.
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Antonio told her.”
His expression hardened.
“Why?”
“Because Teresa was pregnant and wanted to leave.”
Maria explained.
Antonio and Teresa had an affair while she worked as his accountant.
It began during a period when Antonio and Elena were separated privately but remained married publicly.
Teresa became pregnant.
Antonio wanted to acknowledge the baby.
Elena was devastated.
But something unexpected happened.
She befriended Teresa.
Not immediately.
Not easily.
But Elena understood Antonio had lied to both women.
When Isabella was born, Elena gave Teresa the third Moretti locket.
The one around my neck.
“She said Isabella was innocent,” Maria whispered.
I touched it.
The locket had never been stolen.
It had been given.
By Vincent’s mother.
“Why did Teresa tell me Robert Romano was my father?”
“To protect you from Carlo.”
Because Antonio’s illegitimate daughter would have inheritance rights.
Not merely emotional significance.
Under Antonio’s private trust, every acknowledged biological child received an equal protected share of Belladonna Holdings.
Carlo knew.
If Isabella existed publicly, Vincent would not be the sole heir.
Carlo feared divided control.
More importantly, Teresa had evidence of his crimes.
“So he buried both truths,” Vincent said.
“Yes.”
I looked toward the open grave.
“Then whose body is that?”
Maria’s face crumpled.
“I think I know.”
“Who?”
“Cecilia Hart.”
The name meant nothing to me.
It meant everything to Vincent.
“My mother’s nurse.”
Cecilia cared for Elena after Antonio’s death.
According to the family story, Cecilia later returned to Ireland.
She didn’t.
Carlo needed a female body for Elena’s staged death.
Cecilia discovered too much.
He killed her.
Placed her in Elena’s coffin.
Then produced false travel and death records for both women.
“Where was Elena?” Vincent asked.
Maria shook her head.
“Carlo moved her repeatedly.”
“For twenty-five years?”
“I don’t know how long she survived.”
The forensic team later confirmed the body was not Teresa.
Relief hit so hard I nearly collapsed.
Dental records identified Cecilia Hart.
Another murdered woman.
Another family lie.
But the ring?
Maria explained Cecilia had been given Teresa’s ring deliberately.
Carlo wanted anyone who eventually opened the grave to believe Teresa died too.
A false trail inside a false grave.
Everything he did relied on confusion.
Then Detective Russo received a call.
He walked away.
Returned with a grim expression.
“We located Carlo DeMarco’s vehicle.”
“Where?” Vincent asked.
“New Jersey.”
“Carlo?”
“Gone.”
“Any sign of Teresa?”
Russo looked at me.
“There was blood in the trunk.”
My knees weakened.
Vincent caught my arm.
I immediately pulled away.
Not because I feared him.
Because the thought of my mother injured made me unable to tolerate anyone touching me.
“Is it hers?”
“We need DNA.”
“How long?”
“As fast as possible.”
Vincent looked at Salvatore.
“Search every DeMarco property.”
Russo interrupted.
“No private raids.”
Vincent turned.
“My mother may be alive. Her mother may be alive.”
“And if you storm properties, you could destroy evidence or get them killed.”
Vincent hated it.
But he nodded.
That told me something important about him.
The man everyone called a mafia boss had enough power to ignore the police.
Instead, he chose not to.
Maybe he was different from the men before him.
Later that morning, we returned to Belladonna House.
I showered.
Changed into clothes Mrs. Bell found for me.
When I entered the library, Vincent was studying Antonio’s old trust documents.
He looked up.
“If Maria is right, you’re entitled to part of everything.”
“I don’t want anything.”
“You should know what exists before deciding.”
“I said I don’t want it.”
“Fair.”
No argument.
Again, unexpected.
I sat.
“What was Antonio like?”
Vincent’s expression shifted.
“I was eight when he died.”
“You remember him?”
“Yes.”
“Was he good?”
Vincent looked toward the window.
“No.”
The answer surprised me.
“He loved me. He loved my mother. Apparently he loved Teresa.”
He gave a bitter laugh.
“He also lied to all of them.”
“So not good.”
“Not simple.”
I understood that.
My mother had spent my childhood lying too.
Maybe for protection.
Still lies.
A guard entered.
“Boss.”
“What?”
“We found something in Miss DeMarco’s room.”
He placed a tablet on the desk.
Security footage.
Three nights earlier.
Vivian inside Belladonna House’s private office.
She opened Vincent’s safe.
Removed a folder.
Photographed every page.
Then sent the images to someone.
The recipient number belonged to Carlo.
Vincent’s face hardened.
Vivian had been spying on him for her father.
But that wasn’t the worst part.
One photographed page showed a private DNA report commissioned by Vincent six months earlier.
I frowned.
“Why did you have a DNA test?”
Vincent stared at the screen.
“Because I found out Antonio might have had another child.”
My pulse jumped.
“You knew?”
“Not who.”
“How?”
“A letter from my mother.”
“Where?”
“Hidden inside her piano.”
The report compared Vincent’s DNA to an unknown female sample.
“Whose sample?”
“I didn’t know. Salvatore found hair inside the locket case that belonged to my mother.”
He looked at me.
“The result said the unidentified female was likely my paternal half sibling.”
My chest tightened.
He had known a sister might exist.
But not me.
Then another security alert appeared.
The front gates.
A woman stood outside in the snow.
Thin.
Gray coat.
Dark hair streaked with silver.
Mrs. Bell whispered:
“Oh my God.”
Vincent stood.
I stared at the woman on the monitor.
I knew that face.
Older.
Exhausted.
But unmistakable.
“Mom.”
May you like
Teresa Romano had come to Belladonna House herself.
And she was carrying a gun.
