Chapter 3 - THE BROTHER WHO WAS SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD
Dante’s older brother, Matteo, died twelve years ago.
Boat explosion on Lake Michigan.
No body recovered.
I had attended memorial dinners where Dante’s mother cried at the mention of his name.
I had watched Dante stand beside a photograph of his brother every August and drink one glass of bourbon without speaking.
Now someone was telling me Matteo was alive.
I finally asked Dante.
“Is your brother dead?”
Silence.
Then:
“Who told you about Matteo?”
Not Is my brother dead?
Who told you?
My fingers tightened around the phone.
“You lied to me.”
“It wasn’t my secret to tell.”
“That sentence should be engraved on your family crest.”
“Lena.”
“Is he alive?”
“Yes.”
One word.
Five years of marriage rearranged themselves around it.
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
“When did you last see him?”
“Six years ago.”
A year before Dante married me.
“What happened?”
“Matteo tried to take control of the family business from our father. He lost.”
“So you staged his death?”
“No. Matteo staged it himself.”
According to Dante, Matteo had stolen seventeen million dollars, disappeared after the explosion, and resurfaced years later under another identity.
Dante helped keep him hidden because their mother begged him.
“And Sofia?”
“She worked for Matteo before she worked for me.”
That nearly knocked the air from my lungs.
“You hired your fugitive brother’s associate?”
“I hired someone I thought had turned against him.”
“You thought wrong.”
“Yes.”
The admission came immediately.
No defense.
No arrogance.
That frightened me more than argument would have.
“Why was Sofia in Zurich?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did Matteo forge my signature?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did Sofia?”
“I’m going to find out.”
I laughed bitterly.
“Of course you are.”
“Lena, this isn’t about our marriage anymore.”
“It stopped being about our marriage the second someone insured my life for one hundred million dollars.”
That silenced him.
Then I heard another voice on his end.
His father.
Vittorio Moretti.
“What did she find?”
Dante covered the phone too late.
I froze.
“Your father is there?”
“Lena—”
“Put him on.”
“No.”
“Dante.”
His voice hardened.
“My father is not speaking to you.”
“Then I’ll speak to the FBI.”
Vittorio took the phone.
“You always were stubborn.”
“And you always treated that like an insult.”
A tired breath.
“What do you want?”
“Who forged my signature?”
“I don’t know.”
“Wrong answer.”
“Believe what you want.”
Then I asked the question that mattered.
“Why was I made successor to Dante without my consent?”
Vittorio stopped breathing for a moment.
Because apparently the forged documents did not merely protect the Moretti fortune.
They activated something else.
An old trust created by Dante’s grandmother.
A trust containing controlling interests in shipping terminals, real estate, and legitimate businesses worth nearly nine hundred million dollars.
And according to Vittorio, the trust could not pass to either Moretti brother.
It could only pass to Dante’s lawful wife.
Me.
Then Vittorio whispered:
May you like
“Matteo didn’t come back for Dante’s empire, Lena.”
“He came back for you.”
