Chapter 3 - THE WOMAN HE KISSED HAD BEEN LYING TO BOTH OF US
We found Sofia in Detroit.
Not because Dante’s people tracked her.
Because she called me.
“I need to see you.”
“Why?”
“Because I made a mistake.”
I laughed.
“Which one?”
Silence.
Fair question.
She gave me an address.
An old lakeside motel.
Dante wanted to come.
I said yes.
Not because I needed protection.
Because the secrets belonged to him too.
Sofia opened the motel door.
She looked nothing like the woman from Dante’s office.
No expensive suit.
No perfect makeup.
No confidence.
Just exhaustion.
I walked inside.
Dante remained near the door.
Sofia looked at me.
“I’m sorry.”
“Start somewhere else.”
She nodded.
“My father was Adrian Vale.”
“So we are sisters?”
“Yes.”
“Half sisters?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know before you kissed my husband?”
Her eyes filled.
“Yes.”
Dante looked away.
That answer destroyed whatever tiny sympathy I had.
“Why?”
“I hated you.”
I stared.
“At least that’s honest.”
Sofia cried.
“I spent my entire life knowing Dad had another daughter.”
“You knew?”
“My mother knew about your mother.”
“So you grew up knowing I existed.”
“Yes.”
“And I knew nothing.”
“Yes.”
“Then why hate me?”
“Because after Dad died, my mother lost everything. We lived in apartments. She worked two jobs. And you grew up with Thomas Hart.”
“My father was a high-school teacher.”
“You had a father.”
That silenced me.
Sofia continued.
“I didn’t.”
Pain recognized pain even when anger wanted to refuse.
“When I found your mother, I wanted answers.”
“And?”
“She told me about Salvatore.”
Dante stepped forward.
“What did you discover?”
Sofia opened a bag.
Documents.
A diary.
Letters.
Dante’s mother, Lucia, had written them.
Lucia Moretti had been trapped in an abusive marriage to Salvatore.
She had fallen in love with a young attorney named Michael Caruso.
Dante was Michael’s son.
Salvatore knew.
But acknowledging it would humiliate the Moretti family.
So he raised Dante as his own.
Michael disappeared when Dante was two.
Murdered.
By Salvatore.
Dante read the letter twice.
Then sat down.
I had never seen him look small.
I wanted to touch him.
I didn’t.
Not yet.
“What about Adrian?” I asked.
Sofia handed me another document.
Adrian had discovered Michael’s murder.
He threatened Salvatore.
Salvatore arranged Adrian’s death.
Two men destroyed because they knew too much about the same man.
Our fathers.
Our families.
Our lives connected long before Dante and I ever met.
Then I understood.
“Why did you get close to Dante?”
Sofia looked ashamed.
“I thought he knew.”
“Knew what?”
“That Salvatore murdered Dad.”
“So you joined his company.”
“Yes.”
“To investigate.”
“Yes.”
“And then?”
“I realized Dante didn’t know.”
“But you stayed.”
“I wanted access.”
“To records?”
“Yes.”
“And the kiss?”
Silence.
“Sofia.”
“I wanted to hurt you.”
Dante’s head lifted.
She continued crying.
“I found your mother first. I saw your life. Your marriage. The apartment. The photographs. Everything I thought Dad’s other daughter had received while I got nothing.”
“You thought stealing my husband would fix your childhood?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
“Because I was angry.”
Her voice broke.
“And because he let me.”
Dante flinched.
I looked at him.
That mattered.
Sofia could manipulate.
Flirt.
Lie.
But Dante had still made his choice.
He knew that.
So did I.
Sofia handed me one final envelope.
“Salvatore left something else.”
Inside were financial records.
The Moretti empire had been built partly with stolen Vale assets.
Money Adrian had intended to use to start his own company.
Millions.
Adjusted over three decades?
Hundreds of millions.
Legally, the situation was complicated.
Morally, it wasn’t.
Part of Dante’s empire belonged to Sofia.
And possibly to me.
Dante read the documents.
Then said something neither of us expected.
“I’ll return it.”
Sofia stared.
“What?”
“Everything.”
“Dante.”
“Everything connected to Adrian.”
His attorney would have had a heart attack.
Sofia looked suspicious.
“What do you want?”
“Nothing.”
“Nobody gives away that kind of money.”
“I’m not giving it away.”
Dante’s voice hardened.
“I’m returning stolen property.”
I looked at him.
For the first time since our anniversary, I saw the man I had married.
Not because he was powerful.
Because he was choosing something difficult when nobody could force him.
We returned to Chicago.
The investigation began.
Then someone tried to kill Sofia.
Her car exploded in a parking garage.
She survived because she was inside a coffee shop.
Dante immediately understood.
“If Salvatore is dead, who is protecting his secrets?”
The answer arrived the next morning.
Dante’s uncle.
Carlo Moretti.
Chairman emeritus.
Family patriarch.
The man who had toasted our wedding.
The man Dante called Uncle Carlo.
He had helped Salvatore hide everything.
Michael’s murder.
Adrian’s murder.
The stolen money.
And now he wanted Sofia silent.
Then he discovered I knew.
That changed everything.
I was seven months pregnant when Carlo’s men took me.
I had ignored one security protocol.
One.
I left my doctor’s office through the side entrance because reporters were waiting outside.
A van stopped.
Two men.
Everything happened quickly.
When I woke, I was in an old warehouse.
My hands were not tied.
Carlo was not stupid enough to risk harming the babies accidentally.
He sat across from me.
“You look like your mother.”
“People keep telling me things about my family lately.”
He smiled.
“You’ve caused problems.”
“Apparently hereditary.”
Carlo wanted the documents.
I didn’t have them.
He didn’t believe me.
Then my phone rang.
Dante.
Carlo answered.
“Hello, nephew.”
I heard Dante’s voice.
“Let her go.”
No shouting.
That was worse.
Carlo smiled.
“Bring me everything Sofia found.”
“You can have it.”
I closed my eyes.
Of course.
Dante would surrender everything.
The evidence.
The company.
Anything.
“Dante,” I shouted.
Carlo’s man moved toward me.
Carlo stopped him.
Dante heard.
“Lena.”
“Don’t.”
“I’m coming.”
“No.”
“Lena.”
“You do not trade the truth for me.”
“I trade anything for you.”
My heart broke.
“That’s the problem.”
Silence.
I pressed my hand against my stomach.
Our babies moved.
“Trust me.”
Dante understood.
Maybe.
Carlo ended the call.
“You think he’ll listen?”
“I think he’s learning.”
Carlo laughed.
“He’s a Moretti.”
“No.”
I looked at him.
“He isn’t.”
His smile disappeared.
That was when I knew.
He had not known we discovered the truth.
Good.
I kept talking.
“Salvatore wasn’t Dante’s father.”
Carlo stood.
“Who told you?”
“Lucia.”
“She’s dead.”
“Dead people leave letters.”
His face changed.
I had him.
And what Carlo did not know was that my phone was still recording.
Before entering the doctor’s office, I had activated an audio recording for notes.
It had never stopped.
Carlo began talking.
Angry men with secrets often did.
He admitted Michael’s murder.
Adrian’s.
The stolen money.
Sofia’s car.
Everything.
Twenty-seven minutes later, the warehouse doors exploded inward.
Police.
Federal agents.
And Dante.
Carlo reached for me.
Dante stopped.
He could have attacked him.
Instead, he looked at me.
“Lena?”
Permission.
Even now.
I nodded.
Then Dante moved.
By the time police pulled him away, Carlo Moretti was bleeding and furious.
But alive.
Alive enough to stand trial.
Dante reached me.
His hands shook.
“Can I touch you?”
I cried.
“Yes.”
He wrapped his arms around me.
I buried my face against his chest.
For one minute, I forgot everything else.
Then pain ripped through my stomach.
I gasped.
Dante pulled back.
“What?”
Another contraction.
My eyes widened.
“No.”
“What?”
“My water just broke.”
Dante Moretti—the man Chicago feared—went completely white.
“Now?”
I almost laughed.
“No, Dante. Next Thursday.”
Another contraction hit.
He shouted for an ambulance.
Twenty-three minutes later, the most powerful man in Chicago was sitting in the back of one, holding my hand and looking more terrified than I had ever seen him.
May you like
Our daughters were coming.
And neither of us knew whether the broken marriage waiting for them could ever become a family again.
