Chapter 4 - VICTOR’S BROTHER WASN’T DEAD
Victor told me Salvatore Moretti died eighteen years ago.
At least, that was what everyone believed.
His car had gone over a bridge in Jersey during a storm.
No body was recovered.
The family held a funeral anyway.
I sat beside Lily’s bed while Victor explained.
“Salvatore hated Elena.”
“Why?”
“He believed she was manipulating me.”
“Was she?”
“No.”
“You sound very certain.”
“I loved her.”
The answer came too fast to be rehearsed.
I looked away.
That meant something if Victor truly was my father.
Something I was not ready to touch.
“Salvatore told my father about our plan to leave,” Victor continued. “My father ordered Elena sent away.”
“But she escaped.”
“Yes.”
“And somebody burned a warehouse.”
Victor nodded.
“Elena was supposed to meet me there.”
“Who found the body?”
“Salvatore.”
My stomach sank.
“He lied.”
“Maybe.”
“Victor.”
His eyes lifted.
“If Elena survived and Salvatore arranged the evidence of her death, then he knew.”
“That she was pregnant?”
“Possibly.”
“Why keep me alive?”
“I don’t know.”
Marco answered from the doorway.
“Maybe he didn’t know where Elena went.”
Victor turned.
“What did you find?”
“Enough.”
Marco placed old records on the table.
Eighteen years ago, after Salvatore’s supposed death, money began moving from dormant Moretti accounts to offshore companies.
Same pattern every year.
Small amounts.
Invisible unless someone looked backward.
“Who authorized the transfers?” Victor asked.
“Your father.”
Victor’s expression changed.
“Until he died?”
“Yes.”
“And afterward?”
Marco hesitated.
“Your signature.”
Victor stared at him.
“I didn’t authorize them.”
“I know.”
I looked between the men.
“Someone forged his signature too?”
Marco nodded.
“Looks that way.”
Victor walked toward the window.
“So Salvatore survived.”
“Likely.”
“My father knew.”
“Likely.”
“And financed him.”
“Yes.”
Victor laughed once.
It sounded dangerous.
I understood something then.
Families like the Morettis did not need enemies.
They had each other.
Lily stirred.
Her fever had fallen below one hundred.
I touched her forehead.
Cooler.
Thank God.
She opened sleepy blue-gray eyes.
“Mama.”
“I’m here.”
Victor turned.
Lily saw him.
Then held out one tiny hand.
Victor froze.
I smiled despite myself.
“She wants you.”
He approached like the couch might explode.
Lily caught his finger.
That was all.
Victor Moretti, a man who could order an entire room into silence, became completely helpless because an eight-month-old baby held his finger.
“Hi,” he whispered.
Lily blinked.
Then sneezed.
Victor looked alarmed.
I laughed.
“You’ll survive.”
“I’ve been shot twice. This feels less predictable.”
For a few minutes, the world became almost normal.
Then Marco’s phone rang.
He answered.
His face changed.
“What?”
He listened.
“Lock it down.”
Victor stood immediately.
“What now?”
Marco looked at me.
“Hannah’s apartment.”
My stomach dropped.
“What about it?”
“Someone broke in.”
I stood.
“Did they take anything?”
“We don’t know yet.”
“I’m going.”
Victor shook his head.
“No.”
“My mother’s things are there.”
“That’s exactly why you shouldn’t go.”
“They might have taken them.”
“Hannah.”
“I am not spending the rest of my life hiding in your basement while men tear apart everything I own.”
His jaw tightened.
I expected an order.
Instead he nodded.
“Fine. We go together.”
My Brooklyn apartment looked like a tornado had gone through it.
Mattress sliced.
Cabinets emptied.
Clothes scattered.
My mother’s boxes dumped across the floor.
I stood in the doorway and felt violated.
“They were looking for something.”
Victor stepped carefully around broken glass.
“The key.”
“It was with Lily.”
“They didn’t know that.”
I rushed toward the bedroom closet.
A blue storage box was overturned.
Photographs covered the floor.
I dropped to my knees.
My mother smiling at Coney Island.
My mother holding me as a baby.
My mother in a graduation gown.
Then Victor stopped.
He picked up one photograph.
His hand trembled.
Elena stood outside a small house.
Younger.
Pregnant.
Very pregnant.
Beside her was a newspaper showing the date.
Seven months after Victor believed she had died.
On the back, my mother had written:
For when Hannah asks who she comes from.
Below that was an address.
Victor stared.
“Where is this?”
I looked.
“Queens.”
Marco searched the address.
His expression sharpened.
“Property still exists.”
“Owner?”
“Trust.”
Victor’s eyes lifted.
“Which trust?”
Marco turned the screen.
E. Rossi Family Preservation Trust.
We drove there immediately.
The house had been abandoned for years.
Boarded windows.
Dead garden.
Rust on the gate.
Inside, dust covered everything.
My mother had lived here.
I knew it before anyone told me.
A faded height chart was drawn on the kitchen wall.
My name appeared beside several marks.
Hannah, age 3.
I touched them.
Memory flashed.
Yellow curtains.
A woman singing.
A dog barking somewhere outside.
I had lived here.
I had forgotten.
Victor found a locked room upstairs.
The locket key fit.
Inside were boxes.
Hundreds.
Documents.
Photographs.
Cassette tapes.
And one old video camera.
Marco connected it to a portable monitor.
The first recording showed my mother.
Elena.
She sat in the same room twenty-two years earlier.
Her hair was longer.
Her face thinner.
She looked directly into the camera.
“If you are watching this, then either I finally found the courage to tell you everything, or I didn’t live long enough.”
My legs weakened.
Victor caught my elbow.
My mother continued.
“Hannah, I’m sorry.”
I began crying.
“There are truths I kept from you because I wanted you to grow up without carrying our families’ sins.”
Victor’s hand tightened beside me.
“Your father is Victor Moretti.”
I stopped breathing.
Victor closed his eyes.
There it was.
No test required.
No uncertainty.
My father.
Standing beside me.
My mother looked into the camera from twenty-two years ago.
“He never abandoned us. He never knew you existed.”
Victor turned away.
I could not.
“I left because Salvatore threatened to kill Victor if I stayed. He arranged the warehouse fire. He helped me disappear, but not out of mercy.”
Elena swallowed on the recording.
“He wanted something from my father.”
“The ledger,” Marco whispered.
My mother nodded as though she had heard him across time.
“The Rossi archive.”
Victor stepped closer to the screen.
“I refused to tell him where it was. He believed eventually I would.”
She lifted the same silver locket.
“If Hannah has this, then Salvatore failed.”
I covered my mouth.
My mother’s eyes filled with tears.
“One day he will come looking for my child.”
Then she said something none of us expected.
“When that happens, Victor, if you are watching this with her, do not trust your brother.”
Victor whispered, “I don’t.”
My mother continued.
“And do not trust Carlo Moretti.”
Victor went rigid.
Carlo.
His uncle.
One of the most powerful men in the family.
The video cut to black.
Marco’s phone rang almost immediately.
He answered.
Then stared at Victor.
“What?”
Marco swallowed.
“Carlo just arrived at the mansion.”
My heart stopped.
“Lily is there.”
Victor was already running.
Then Marco said the words that turned panic into terror.
May you like
“He brought his own men.”
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