Chapter 13 - THE MORETTI BLOODLINE
My father had never doubted I was his son.
Until then.
The trust conspiracy depended on bloodline.
False genetic files.
Forged paternity reports.
Hidden heirs.
Suddenly, certainty mattered everywhere.
We tested.
Anthony Moretti was my biological father.
Relief lasted about ten seconds.
Then Patricia asked to test Victor.
Why?
Because Victor had repeatedly claimed stronger succession rights than his documents justified.
Results:
Victor and Anthony were half-brothers.
Not full.
Their father was the same.
Their mothers weren't.
The Moretti family records had lied for seventy years.
Why did it matter?
The original Harbor Trust specified descendants of Anthony's mother, Rosa Bellini Moretti—not merely descendants of my grandfather.
Because Rosa's family had supplied the capital that saved the Moretti shipping business.
Victor was never entitled to half the control he had exercised.
His entire position rested on a falsified birth record created by our grandfather.
Victor knew.
That explained everything.
If my sons were recognized, their branch rights combined with the Rosa clause could remove Victor completely.
He wasn't protecting inheritance.
He was hiding that he'd never had a legitimate claim.
My mother knew part of this.
My father didn't.
Another marriage built on silence.
I began to see why Elena had learned not to trust any of us.
Victor's arrest triggered asset freezes.
William Barrett entered a cooperation agreement.
Sloane publicly separated herself from her father's companies.
She sent Elena a message:
I'm sorry my family treated your children like financial instruments.
Elena replied:
They weren't the only ones.
Accurate.
Court-ordered DNA testing confirmed all four boys were mine.
The judge recognized paternity.
Then something happened I hadn't expected.
Elena kept sole physical custody.
Naturally.
I received structured parenting time.
Not instant 50/50.
Not because she punished me.
Because the boys barely knew me.
The court-appointed family specialist said:
“Biology can be established in a day. Attachment cannot.”
That sentence became my rule.
I rented a house near Portland.
Not a mansion.
A normal five-bedroom home.
The boys complained the yard was too small.
Apparently four six-year-olds require acreage.
My first solo Saturday was catastrophic.
I burned pancakes.
Nico lost one shoe.
Matteo refused socks because “feet need freedom.”
Enzo cried because Luca used the blue cup.
Luca asked whether mafia bosses always ruined breakfast.
“Apparently.”
At 10:14, I texted Elena:
Are they always like this?
Her response:
No. Sometimes they're energetic.
I stared at the screen.
Then laughed until I nearly cried.
This was fatherhood.
Not trust documents.
Not bloodline.
Blue cups.
That afternoon, Luca climbed beside me on the couch.
“Are you marrying the fancy lady?”
“Sloane? No.”
“Why?”
“Because I don't love her.”
He thought about that.
“Do you love Mom?”
Children.
No mercy.
“Yes.”
“Does Mom love you?”
“I don't know.”
He nodded seriously.
“You should ask.”
“It's complicated.”
“Adults say that when they don't know.”
Also true.
Then Elena arrived early.
Her face was pale.
“What happened?”
She handed me a letter.
No sender.
Inside was a photograph taken six years ago.
Elena in the hospital.
Four newborns in bassinets.
Standing in the corner was my father.
Anthony.
He had visited them.
May you like
He hadn't merely funded their care anonymously.
He had held my sons before I ever knew they existed.
