Chapter 12 - THE BOY AT THE PRISON GATE
Vincent looked like he had been punched.
“I don’t have another son.”
The woman’s eyes filled.
“Yes, you do.”
Emily looked at me.
I immediately took her hand.
“Let’s give them space.”
“No.”
Vincent’s voice stopped me.
He looked terrified.
“Please stay.”
The woman introduced herself as Rebecca Sloan.
She had worked at a Moretti-owned restaurant nine years earlier.
Vincent stared at her.
“I remember you.”
My stomach tightened.
Rebecca nodded.
“We slept together once.”
I looked at him.
He closed his eyes.
“When?”
She gave the date.
Three months before our wedding.
Technically before our marriage.
Still painful.
Vincent looked at the boy.
“What’s his name?”
“Ethan.”
“Why now?”
Rebecca’s expression hardened.
“Because Anthony paid me to stay quiet.”
Of course.
Every road led back to him.
“How much?”
“Enough to leave Illinois.”
“Why would he care?”
“Because Giovanni’s trust.”
The bloodline clause.
Another biological descendant.
Another threat to Anthony’s control.
Vincent crouched several feet from Ethan.
“Do you know who I am?”
The boy nodded.
“My dad.”
Vincent swallowed.
“Has anyone tested that?”
Rebecca handed him an envelope.
DNA confirmation.
99.98%.
Emily looked fascinated rather than threatened.
“So he’s my brother?”
Rebecca looked at her.
“Yes.”
Emily smiled at Ethan.
“I’ve never had a brother.”
Lucas would have argued with that.
But biologically, she was right.
Vincent sat on the curb.
A former mafia boss.
Fresh out of federal prison.
Discovering a five-year-old son.
Life had a sense of humor.
I sat beside him.
“You okay?”
“No.”
“Good answer.”
He laughed weakly.
Rebecca watched us.
“I’m not asking for money.”
Vincent stood.
“Ethan is entitled to support.”
“I know.”
“And inheritance.”
“I know.”
“And me, if he wants.”
Rebecca’s face softened.
“That’s why I came.”
Vincent looked at me.
“I don’t know how to do this.”
I almost said neither did I.
Instead:
“Start by not leaving.”
His eyes held mine.
“I won’t.”
For the next year, Vincent built his life from scratch.
He was barred from certain corporate roles.
Most of his old fortune had been surrendered.
He retained legitimate assets worth enough that poverty was never remotely possible, but the empire was gone.
He moved into a modest house outside Boston.
Not Chicago.
Boston.
Near Emily.
Near Ethan, after Rebecca relocated for work.
He did not ask me to move.
He did not ask me to remarry him.
He asked permission before school events.
Before birthday parties.
Before appearing at my door.
He attended therapy.
Actual therapy.
That shocked me more than prison.
He built a nonprofit with Madison’s help for children whose parents were incarcerated or involved in organized crime.
No Moretti name.
No publicity.
Emily named it Second Start.
Sophia found work outside Chicago.
Dominic became increasingly involved with Lucas.
And somehow, the adults stopped using children as weapons.
Then one rainy Thursday evening, Vincent called me.
“Claire?”
His voice sounded wrong.
“What happened?”
“Emily collapsed at school.”
Everything inside me stopped.
“What?”
“I’m with her.”
“Where?”
“Mass General.”
I was already grabbing my keys.
“What happened?”
“They think it’s cardiac.”
The mutation.
The one she inherited from Vincent.
I reached the hospital in twenty-three minutes.
He stood outside pediatric cardiology.
His face was gray.
“She asked for you.”
I rushed inside.
Emily lay beneath white blankets with monitors attached to her chest.
“Mom.”
I kissed her forehead.
“I’m here.”
She looked toward Vincent.
“Dad stayed.”
The word hit him.
Dad.
Not Vincent.
Not biological father.
Dad.
He turned away so she wouldn’t see him cry.
The cardiologist entered.
“We found the cause.”
I stood.
“Can you fix it?”
“Yes.”
Relief nearly dropped me.
“But she needs a procedure.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
Vincent stepped forward.
“Whatever she needs.”
The doctor nodded.
Then looked at both of us.
“There’s another issue.”
My stomach tightened.
“What?”
“This condition has a strong genetic pattern.”
“Yes.”
“We recommend screening all of Mr. Moretti’s biological children immediately.”
Emily.
Ethan.
Then the doctor paused.
“And there appears to be another child listed in the hereditary registry.”
Vincent frowned.
“What other child?”
The doctor turned the screen.
Female.
Age seven.
Born in Chicago.
Mother:
Sophia Reynolds.
Vincent stared.
We all did.
May you like
Sophia had another daughter.
And apparently that child shared Vincent’s genetic mutation.
