Chapter 2 - His Pregnant Wife Confessed That Her Brother Had Spent Nine Years in Prison Because of the Moretti Family—Then Dante Found a Secret His Mother Had Buried for DecadesDante had faced men who pointed guns at his chest without feeling the kind of fear he felt watching Isabella cry.
It wasn't the tears themselves.
He had seen her cry before.
She cried when she was overwhelmed, when she was angry, when she was happy, and once because a veterinarian on television had reunited an elderly man with a dog he thought he had lost forever.
But this was different.
This was fear that had been waiting for years.
Fear that had finally found its way into their bedroom.
Dante moved the photograph aside.
"Tell me."
Isabella shook her head.
"I don't know where to begin."
"Start with Gabriel."
She wiped her cheeks.
"My brother wasn't always like the man in those photographs."
Dante waited.
"He used to work as an electrician. He was good at it. He helped pay for my college classes after our mother got sick."
"Your mother died when you were twenty."
"Yes."
"I remember."
Isabella looked at him.
"You know she died. You don't know what happened before."
Dante said nothing.
Their marriage had begun four years earlier, after a chance meeting at a children's hospital fundraiser.
Isabella had been organizing a reading program.
Dante had attended because his foundation was donating money.
She had mistaken him for a volunteer and handed him three cardboard boxes.
He carried them.
When someone finally told her who he was, she apologized.
He told her there was nothing to apologize for.
She said, "Good, because you were standing around looking useless."
He fell in love with her before dessert.
But there were things they had never discussed.
Isabella rarely spoke about her family.
He knew her mother had died, her father had disappeared from her life, and she had grown up in Queens with an older brother.
He had assumed she didn't speak about Gabriel because they were estranged.
He had never asked why.
Now he wondered how much of that silence had been created by his name.
"My mother worked as a bookkeeper," Isabella said. "She handled accounts for several small companies. One of them was owned by your father."
Dante's expression changed.
"Moretti Consolidated?"
She nodded.
"Through a subsidiary."
He knew the company.
It had been dissolved years earlier after a federal investigation.
"Gabriel discovered irregularities in the accounts," Isabella continued. "He wasn't looking for trouble. Mom brought home paperwork because she couldn't understand why some invoices didn't match the bank deposits."
Dante leaned forward.
"What kind of invoices?"
"Construction materials that were never delivered. Payments to businesses that didn't exist. Money transferred between companies with different names but the same people behind them."
He understood immediately.
Laundering.
His father's preferred method had been to bury dirty money beneath legitimate transactions.
Dante had inherited the consequences.
He had spent years untangling businesses his father had built, though he had also profited from operations he knew he should have shut down.
"What did Gabriel do?"
"He went to the police."
Dante closed his eyes.
Of course.
"And?"
"Two weeks later, a jewelry store was robbed in Brooklyn. Someone identified Gabriel as one of the men involved."
Dante frowned.
"Was he?"
"No."
The certainty in her voice was absolute.
"He was working that night. Three people could verify it. But one witness changed her statement, and another disappeared."
Dante's jaw tightened.
"Evidence?"
"A jacket. Cash. A gun they claimed was found in his apartment."
"Planted?"
"Gabriel always said so."
Dante looked toward the window.
"And the case went to trial."
"Yes."
"Nine years."
She nodded.
"He served nine years for something he didn't do."
Dante sat very still.
His father, Vittorio Moretti, had died six years earlier.
A heart attack.
Unexpected.
Almost merciful.
The old man had built an empire on fear and loyalty, and Dante had spent most of his adult life trying to separate the two.
He had succeeded less often than he liked to admit.
"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked.
Isabella looked at him.
"Because when I met you, I didn't know your father was involved."
"When did you find out?"
"After we were married."
Dante felt something twist inside him.
"How?"
"Gabriel wrote to me. He said he'd recognized your surname when I told him about you."
"And you didn't tell me."
She flinched.
He immediately regretted the accusation in his voice.
"I'm not saying you had no reason."
Isabella looked down.
"I wanted to."
"Then why didn't you?"
"Because I was happy."
The answer surprised him.
She continued.
"For the first time in years, I was happy. I had a husband who loved me. A home where I felt safe. A future that didn't involve worrying about rent or court dates or whether my brother was going to survive another winter in prison."
Her voice cracked.
"And I was afraid that if I told you, you'd think I married you to get revenge."
Dante stared.
"Isabella."
She shook her head.
"I know how it sounds."
"No."
He reached for her hand again.
This time she let him take it.
"It sounds like you were scared."
She began crying.
Dante pulled her gently against him.
She buried her face in his chest.
For several minutes, neither spoke.
Then she whispered:
"Gabriel got out six weeks ago."
"I know."
"He didn't want to meet you."
"Why?"
"He thinks the Morettis destroyed our family."
Dante swallowed.
"And he has reason to."
She looked up.
"He's not dangerous."
"Marco said he was convicted of armed robbery."
"Marco only knows what the records say."
Dante nodded.
"Then we'll find out what really happened."
Isabella pulled back.
"How?"
"Carefully."
She studied him.
"You're not going to send men after him?"
"No."
"You're not going to threaten him?"
"No."
"You're not going to make him disappear?"
Dante stared.
"Is that what you think I'd do?"
Her silence hurt.
But he understood it.
He had spent years allowing his reputation to speak for him.
Sometimes it said things he wished were no longer true.
"Isabella," he said quietly, "I want to meet your brother. But only if he agrees."
She looked uncertain.
"And the man following us?"
Dante's expression hardened.
"That is different."
"He's been there for weeks."
"Did you know?"
She nodded.
"Gabriel noticed him first."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because Gabriel said it might be someone from the old case."
Dante stared.
"And you thought handling it alone was safer?"
She looked away.
"I thought telling you would put you in the middle."
He exhaled slowly.
"Sweetheart, I'm already in the middle."
She touched her stomach.
Their daughter kicked.
Dante lowered his palm.
For a moment, both were silent.
Then Isabella whispered:
"I'm scared for her."
He looked at her.
"So am I."
The admission surprised them both.
Dante had never been comfortable admitting fear.
But now he realized that pretending not to feel it wouldn't protect anyone.
He kissed her forehead.
"We're going to do this differently."
"How?"
"No secrets."
She nodded slowly.
"No secrets."
"And no decisions about your brother without you."
Her eyes filled.
"Thank you."
He held her.
Then asked the question that had been waiting beneath everything else.
"Does my mother know?"
Isabella went still.
Dante felt it immediately.
"Isabella?"
She pulled away.
"Gabriel thinks she does."
His stomach tightened.
"Why?"
"Because nine years ago, after his arrest, someone visited him in jail."
"Who?"
Isabella swallowed.
"Katarina Moretti."
Dante stared.
"My mother?"
She nodded.
"What did she want?"
"Gabriel said she offered him a deal."
Dante's voice turned cold.
"What deal?"
"If he stopped accusing your father, she would make sure I received a scholarship and Mom's medical bills were paid."
Dante stood.
His chair scraped against the floor.
Isabella flinched.
He stopped immediately.
"Sorry."
She nodded.
Dante walked toward the window.
The city glittered below.
For years, he had believed his mother was the one person who understood the cost of his father's empire.
She had endured Vittorio's affairs, his violence, his betrayals.
She had told Dante that family was the only thing that mattered.
Now he wondered whether she had meant family.
Or the Moretti name.
He turned.
"Did Gabriel accept?"
"No."
"What happened?"
"Mom died three months later."
Dante closed his eyes.
Isabella continued.
"Gabriel believes the stress and the loss of her insurance made her condition worse."
Dante looked at her.
"What condition?"
"Heart failure."
He swallowed.
"Did she lose insurance because of the investigation?"
Isabella nodded.
"Her employer terminated her."
The room went silent.
Dante thought of his father.
Of all the people who had been hurt because they were inconvenient.
Then he thought of his mother sitting in his office that afternoon.
Calm.
Elegant.
Certain.
This child will carry the Moretti name.
He felt sick.
He crossed the room.
Picked up his phone.
Called Marco.
His brother answered immediately.
"Please tell me this isn't about another photograph."
"Come to the townhouse."
A pause.
"Dante?"
"Now."
"What's wrong?"
Dante looked at Isabella.
Then said:
"We need to talk about Father."
Marco went silent.
For the first time in years, he didn't make a joke.
"I'm coming."
Dante ended the call.
Isabella watched him.
"What are you going to do?"
He looked at her.
"Find the truth."
She swallowed.
"And your mother?"
Dante's expression hardened.
"She can explain herself."
But neither of them knew that Katarina Moretti had already begun preparing her own explanation.
Across Manhattan, in a penthouse overlooking Central Park, Katarina stood beside a fireplace holding a telephone.
The man on the other end spoke quietly.
"He knows Gabriel's identity."
Katarina closed her eyes.
"How?"
"His brother investigated."
"Of course he did."
A pause.
"What do you want me to do?"
Katarina looked toward a framed photograph of her late husband.
Vittorio Moretti smiled from behind the glass.
She had spent thirty years protecting his reputation.
Thirty years hiding his mistakes.
Thirty years convincing herself that loyalty was the same as love.
Now everything was unraveling.
"Nothing," she said.
The man hesitated.
"Mrs. Moretti—"
"Do nothing."
"But the Rossi woman—"
"Her name is Isabella."
Silence.
Katarina's voice hardened.
"And she's carrying my granddaughter."
The man said nothing.
She continued.
"If anyone touches her, I will make sure they regret it."
Then she ended the call.
For a long moment, she stood motionless.
Finally, she opened a drawer beneath the fireplace.
Inside lay an old envelope.
The paper had yellowed.
Across the front, in Vittorio's handwriting, were three words.
FOR KATARINA ONLY.
She opened it.
Inside was a photograph.
A young woman standing beside Vittorio Moretti.
A baby in her arms.
On the back, someone had written:
Gabriel. 1984.
Katarina stared.
Her hands began to shake.
Then she whispered:
"Oh, Vittorio."
Because the secret she had spent decades hiding was no longer only about Isabella's brother.
May you like
It was about blood.
And the possibility that the man Dante had been taught to fear was part of the Moretti family itself.
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