Chapter 4 - THE BABY THEY DIDN'T KNOW ABOUT
I laughed when I read the note.
Not because anything was funny.
Because sometimes the truth becomes too terrible for any normal reaction.
“They targeted me?”
Vincent took the photograph.
His entire body changed.
The exhausted husband disappeared.
The man half of Manhattan feared stepped forward.
“I’m going to find Matteo.”
“No.”
He stared at me.
“No?”
“You don’t get to disappear into whatever violent Moretti solution you’re thinking about.”
“Claire—”
“The police are investigating.”
“He targeted my wife.”
“Your estranged wife.”
The words hurt both of us.
Good.
They needed to.
Vincent’s jaw tightened.
“He killed our child.”
“We don’t know that yet.”
I hated saying it.
But grief didn’t make guesses into facts.
Detective Harris examined the photograph.
“Who knew Mrs. Moretti would take that car?”
I looked at Vincent.
“No one.”
Then I remembered.
“Vanessa.”
Vincent went still.
I explained.
That morning, my car wouldn’t start. I had called Vincent’s office asking whether I could use the sedan.
Vanessa answered.
She told me Vincent wouldn’t need it.
“She knew exactly what car I was driving,” I whispered.
Harris nodded.
“Did she know you were pregnant?”
“No.”
I hadn’t known.
Vincent looked suddenly ill.
Then Harris asked:
“Were you trying to become pregnant?”
Silence filled the room.
Vincent stared at me.
I looked away.
“We stopped preventing it about six months ago.”
“Claire.”
I ignored him.
“But I hadn’t taken a test. My cycle had been irregular.”
Harris wrote something down.
“Did anyone else know you were trying?”
“My gynecologist.”
“And?”
I hesitated.
“Vanessa scheduled some of my appointments because they were listed on Vincent’s family calendar.”
Vincent’s expression hardened.
“When was your last appointment?”
“Three weeks ago.”
I remembered bloodwork.
Routine tests.
The doctor had mentioned calling if anything unexpected showed up.
Nobody called me.
I contacted the clinic.
The receptionist checked.
Then said:
“Mrs. Moretti, we sent a pregnancy notification to the contact address on your account nineteen days ago.”
My skin turned cold.
“What address?”
She read it.
Vanessa Reed’s executive email.
Vincent stopped breathing.
I whispered:
“So she knew.”
Nineteen days.
Vanessa knew I was pregnant before I did.
Vincent demanded copies of every message.
One had been opened.
Another downloaded.
A third forwarded.
“To who?” Harris asked.
The clinic technician traced the header.
Then looked at us.
“The forwarded copy went to M. Moretti.”
Matteo.
I sat down.
Why would Matteo care that I was pregnant?
Vincent’s face had become unreadable.
“Claire.”
“What?”
“There’s something about my family you don’t know.”
I laughed bitterly.
“Join the list.”
His voice dropped.
“My grandfather’s trust still controls voting rights in several Moretti companies.”
“So?”
“Those rights transfer differently if I have a child.”
My heartbeat slowed.
“How?”
“If I die without an heir, Matteo inherits control.”
The room became silent.
“And if you have one?”
“The child inherits my shares in trust.”
I finally understood.
Matteo had not been trying to kill Vincent.
Vincent’s death would have made Matteo rich.
But our baby’s existence would have taken that inheritance away.
May you like
He didn’t target me because I was Vincent Moretti’s wife.
He targeted me because I was carrying Vincent Moretti’s heir.
