Chapter 5 - THE SISTER IN THE PHOTOGRAPH
Her name was Sofia Moretti.
Not the woman buried under Elena’s identity.
A different Sofia.
Lorenzo’s sister.
Born eighteen years earlier.
Raised under another surname.
Alive.
At least according to Valentina.
Lorenzo stopped asking questions for almost a full minute.
Then:
“Who is her father?”
“My father,” Nicholas said.
Lorenzo stared.
“Our father?”
“Yes.”
“Where was she born?”
“Canada.”
“Mother?”
“Elena.”
Lorenzo laughed once.
Not humor.
Exhaustion.
“So Mom disappeared, had another child, and nobody thought I should know.”
Nicholas said:
“She was already pregnant when she vanished.”
That hurt Lorenzo visibly.
Elena had staged her death after Giovanni died.
But apparently she had fled before the funeral process completed.
Why?
Because Carlo knew she had evidence against him.
Sofia became leverage.
Years later, Carlo discovered her existence.
“He hasn’t physically held her captive all these years,” Valentina explained. “But he controls documents, money, and the identity she uses.”
“How?”
“Her immigration status. Trust ownership. Evidence tying her adoptive father to financial crimes.”
Lorenzo looked at Sloan.
“Can he actually hurt her?”
“Legally? Possibly. Physically? That depends on what access he has.”
Nicholas placed another photograph on the table.
A young woman.
Eighteen.
Dark hair.
Same eyes.
Moretti eyes.
She stood outside a university building in Montreal.
Lorenzo touched the image carefully.
He had lost a brother.
A mother.
Gained a sister he had never met.
All while preparing to marry a woman who had threatened my child because she was secretly trying to stop his uncle.
Normal families seemed suddenly miraculous.
Then Sloan’s phone rang.
The marina.
Local officers found Matteo Santoro’s car abandoned nearby.
Blood on the steering wheel.
No Matteo.
“We go now,” Lorenzo said.
Sloan stopped him.
“No.”
“He knows where Carlo is.”
“And Carlo may be baiting you.”
“He already is.”
Sloan looked at him.
“Then stop rewarding him.”
That sentence worked.
Instead, investigators searched.
The old marina contained three buildings.
Main office.
Boathouse.
Storage.
Inside the boathouse, they found the ledger.
Not Matteo.
The ledger was sealed inside a waterproof compartment beneath an old workbench.
It contained decades of records connecting Carlo to illegal financial operations, bribery, extortion, and several suspicious deaths.
Including Giovanni Moretti.
Lorenzo’s father.
The notation was chillingly simple.
G.M. medication adjusted - C approval.
Carlo.
Another entry:
D.E. recovered after hospice deviation. Chapel solution.
Daniel Ellis.
My husband reduced to initials.
My hands shook when Sloan showed me.
“Recovered?”
She explained.
Daniel apparently escaped an attempted abduction.
Carlo’s men found him.
Then hid his body.
I had to leave the room.
Outside, I sat on the stone steps.
Nicholas followed.
“You okay?”
“No.”
“Stupid question.”
“Yes.”
He sat beside me.
For a while, neither spoke.
Then I asked:
“Did Daniel know he was dying because of Carlo?”
“Yes.”
“Did he know he would be taken?”
“No.”
“Did he love me?”
Nicholas looked shocked.
“Of course.”
“He lied about half his life.”
“He loved you.”
“That doesn’t erase it.”
“No.”
I looked at him.
“Did he ever regret marrying me?”
“Never.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he told me.”
“When?”
“The week before he died.”
My eyes filled.
“What did he say?”
Nicholas swallowed.
“He said the only honest thing he ever built was with you.”
That broke me.
I cried for the first time.
Not politely.
Years of grief rearranging itself.
Nicholas sat there.
Did not touch me.
Did not tell me to be strong.
When I finally stopped, he handed me Daniel’s wedding ring.
I stared.
“Where did you get that?”
“From the crypt.”
I pressed it into my palm.
My husband had been buried with it.
That mattered more than it should have.
Then Lena called from my sister’s house.
“Mommy?”
“Hi, baby.”
“You crying?”
“Little bit.”
“Why?”
I looked at Nicholas.
“Daddy.”
Silence.
“Is Daddy okay?”
Children don’t understand past tense the way adults do.
“Yes.”
My voice broke.
“He’s okay.”
“Can I come home?”
“Soon.”
“Mr. Lorenzo there?”
“Yes.”
“He keeps you safe?”
I looked toward the estate windows.
Lorenzo stood inside talking with investigators.
“I think so.”
Lena whispered:
“I keep him safe too.”
I smiled.
“Yes, you do.”
That evening, another message arrived from Carlo.
Not to Lorenzo.
To me.
A photograph of Lena leaving school three weeks earlier.
Then:
You picked up the wrong key.
My body went cold.
Lorenzo read it.
His face changed into something I had never seen.
“Where is Lena?”
“With my sister.”
“Not anymore.”
Within minutes, independent federal protection was dispatched.
My sister and daughter were moved.
No Moretti staff knew where.
Lorenzo crouched in front of me.
“Mara.”
I hated how calm he sounded.
“He knows her.”
“He won’t touch her.”
“You cannot promise that.”
“No.”
He paused.
“But I can promise he won’t get near her easily.”
I looked at him.
“You knew Daniel.”
“No.”
“Your family killed him.”
“My uncle did.”
“Same name.”
“Not same man.”
I looked away.
That distinction would take time.
Then Valentina entered.
She held an envelope.
“Carlo sent this to me.”
Inside was a plane ticket.
New York to Montreal.
Tomorrow morning.
And a note:
Bring Lorenzo. Wedding can still happen after family is reunited.
Lorenzo read it.
“He wants me in Canada.”
Nicholas said:
“He wants you away from the ledger.”
Sloan nodded.
“Or away from New York jurisdiction.”
“What about Sofia?”
Valentina looked at Lorenzo.
“He says she’ll die if you don’t come.”
Lorenzo’s eyes hardened.
“We verify she’s alive.”
A video arrived ten minutes later.
Sofia sat in a dim room.
Not restrained.
But frightened.
A newspaper from that morning rested on the table.
She looked at the camera.
“Lorenzo?”
His face changed.
She knew his name.
“If you’re seeing this, Uncle Carlo found me.”
She swallowed.
“Mom said never to trust him.”
Then someone off-camera spoke.
Carlo.
“Tell your brother to come alone.”
Sofia’s eyes filled.
“Don’t.”
The video ended.
Lorenzo stared at the screen.
Nicholas whispered:
“She looks like Mom.”
“Yes.”
Then Lorenzo said something surprising.
“I’m not going alone.”
Sloan nodded.
“Good.”
He looked at me.
“You’re leaving Ravenwood tonight.”
“What?”
“With Lena.”
“No.”
“Mara.”
“No.”
“This is not your war.”
“My husband is buried beneath your chapel.”
Silence.
“My daughter was threatened because I heard the wrong phone call.”
I stood.
“It became my war.”
Lorenzo looked like he wanted to argue.
He stopped.
“Then you stay with Sloan.”
“Fine.”
Valentina asked:
“What about me?”
Lorenzo looked at the woman he was supposed to marry in two days.
For the first time, I saw not romance but exhaustion.
“You tell me.”
Valentina lowered her eyes.
“I want Sofia alive.”
“Why?”
“Because your mother asked me to protect her.”
“Why would my mother trust you?”
Valentina’s answer stunned him.
“Because she knew my mother.”
Lorenzo frowned.
“How?”
Valentina whispered:
“Your mother helped mine escape Matteo.”
Matteo Santoro.
Valentina’s legal husband.
The man everyone assumed was her ally.
Apparently, he had abused and controlled her mother for years.
History repeated differently in every generation.
“And Matteo?” Lorenzo asked.
“He joined Carlo because Carlo paid his debts.”
“So he isn’t helping us.”
“No.”
“Then why did he reveal Nicholas?”
Valentina looked ashamed.
“Because he wanted Lorenzo and Nicholas fighting.”
Of course.
Every disclosure had been weaponized.
Then Sloan received a call.
Police found Matteo.
Alive.
Barely.
He had been left beside the Hudson.
Before losing consciousness, he gave officers one sentence:
“Carlo isn’t in Montreal.”
Lorenzo froze.
“Then who has Sofia?”
Sloan listened.
Her face changed.
“Matteo says Elena does.”
Silence.
Nicholas stood.
“No.”
Sloan continued.
“According to him, Carlo staged the video.”
“Using Elena?” Lorenzo asked.
“Possibly.”
Nicholas shook his head.
“Mom would never.”
Lorenzo looked at his brother.
May you like
“You’ve said that about a lot of people.”
And suddenly the mother everyone thought was hiding from Carlo became the next person nobody knew whether to trust.
