Chapter 4 - THE LIE INSIDE MATTEO’S FUNERAL
Marco did not deny the payment.
That almost made it worse.
Vincent stood behind the desk with both hands flat against the wood.
“Talk.”
Marco’s voice was quiet.
“The mechanic’s name is Paul Dyer.”
“I know.”
“I paid him.”
“For what?”
“To disable Matteo’s car.”
The room went completely still.
Rebecca stepped closer.
Vincent did not.
He knew himself well enough not to.
“Why?”
“To scare him.”
Vincent laughed.
The sound had no humor in it.
“You cut the brakes on a twenty-one-year-old man to scare him?”
“No.”
Marco’s face tightened.
“I told Dyer to disable the ignition.”
“Then why were the brakes cut?”
“I don’t know.”
“Liar.”
“I swear to you.”
Vincent moved around the desk.
Rebecca immediately said:
“Vincent.”
He stopped.
Not for Marco.
For himself.
“Continue.”
Marco swallowed.
“Matteo came here furious. He wanted to confront you that night.”
“You should have brought him upstairs.”
“I know.”
“No.”
Vincent’s voice sharpened.
“You know now.”
Marco flinched.
“I told him Salvatore had kept him away because Moretti blood destroys whatever gets near it.”
“And he believed you?”
“No.”
Marco almost smiled bitterly.
“He told me I sounded like an old man afraid of losing his chair.”
Vincent stared.
“Was he right?”
Silence.
Marco looked down.
That answer mattered.
When Sophia died, Vincent’s legal succession structure had changed.
He had no known descendants.
No siblings.
His mother was dead.
His father was dead.
Under an old family trust, Marco had been named interim steward of several Moretti-controlled companies if Vincent died without a direct heir.
Not owner.
But powerful.
Very powerful.
Matteo’s existence changed that.
Mia’s existence changed it even more.
Vincent said:
“You stood to gain if I had no family.”
Marco looked furious.
“You think I did this for money?”
“I think I no longer know what you did anything for.”
“I had more money than I could spend before Matteo walked through that gate.”
“Then what?”
Marco’s face finally cracked.
“You.”
Vincent almost hit him then.
Marco continued.
“You were barely alive after Sophia.”
“This was two years later.”
“You think grief respects calendars?”
Vincent stopped.
Marco’s eyes were wet now.
“I watched you sleep in your office because you couldn’t walk past her room.”
Vincent looked away.
“I watched you sit through meetings with blood on your knuckles because you punched walls where nobody could see.”
Rebecca glanced at Vincent.
He ignored her.
Marco continued.
“Then this kid appears saying he’s your son.”
“He was.”
“I didn’t know that then.”
“You could have tested.”
“Yes.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No.”
“Because?”
Marco looked at him.
“Because part of me was afraid you would choose him.”
The words were so small compared with the damage.
Vincent stared.
“Choose him over what?”
“Everything we built.”
There it was.
Not just protection.
Possession.
Marco had spent years becoming indispensable to a grieving man.
A son would have changed the architecture of that relationship.
“You thought I belonged to you.”
Marco shook his head.
“No.”
“Yes.”
Vincent’s voice lowered.
“You called it loyalty because ownership sounded ugly.”
Marco’s face hardened.
“You’re rewriting thirteen years because of one mistake.”
“One?”
Vincent pointed toward the brake photograph.
“My son is dead.”
“I did not order that.”
“You ordered interference with his car.”
“Yes.”
“And when he died?”
Marco looked away.
“What did you do?”
Nothing.
Vincent understood.
“You covered it.”
Marco’s jaw tightened.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I panicked.”
“So you let Elena bury him believing it was an accident.”
“Yes.”
“You let me live three years without knowing he ever existed.”
“Yes.”
Every answer stripped another layer from the room.
Then Elena’s voice came from the doorway.
“And you came to my apartment.”
Marco turned.
She stood there holding an envelope.
Vincent had not heard her enter.
“I told you to stay with Mia.”
“She’s with Rebecca’s assistant.”
Elena walked inside.
Her face was pale but controlled.
She looked directly at Marco.
“You came after Matteo died.”
Marco said nothing.
“You told me not to ask questions.”
“Yes.”
“You told me Vincent had known about Matteo and refused him.”
Marco closed his eyes.
“Yes.”
Elena’s hand shook.
“Why?”
“Because if you came here—”
“What?”
Her voice cracked.
“You’d have to tell him what you did?”
“Yes.”
For the first time, Marco looked ashamed without trying to defend it.
Elena crossed the room and slapped him.
Once.
Hard.
Rebecca inhaled.
Vincent did nothing.
Marco accepted it.
Elena stared at him.
“You stood at his funeral.”
Marco’s eyes filled.
“Yes.”
“You held my elbow when they lowered the coffin.”
“Yes.”
“You told me Matteo would have wanted me to move on.”
“Yes.”
Elena began crying.
“You knew.”
“Yes.”
“Say something else.”
Marco looked at her.
“There isn’t anything else.”
She slapped him again.
This time Vincent caught her wrist gently before she could strike a third time.
Not to protect Marco.
To protect her.
“Elena.”
“Let me go.”
He did immediately.
She stepped back.
“I hate you.”
Marco nodded.
“You should.”
Vincent’s hands curled.
Killing Marco would be easy.
Too easy.
His father would have done it before lunch.
Vincent understood the appeal.
Death ended conversation.
Ended testimony.
Ended the possibility of hearing anything that made hatred complicated.
Elena saw his face.
“Don’t.”
He looked at her.
“Don’t what?”
“You know.”
Vincent’s expression chilled.
“He killed my son.”
“He helped cause his death.”
“Difference?”
“Yes.”
That stopped him.
Elena’s voice shook.
“I want to know everything.”
“So do I.”
“If you kill him, we only know what you decide is enough.”
Vincent looked at Marco.
Then at the gun locked in his desk.
He sat.
For Sophia.
For Matteo.
For Mia.
“Rebecca.”
“Yes?”
“Call the district attorney.”
Marco looked up.
Vincent’s voice stayed calm.
“And federal counsel.”
Marco gave a bitter laugh.
“You’re turning me in.”
“I’m giving them records.”
“Same thing.”
Vincent looked at him.
“No.”
“You know what happens if I talk.”
“Yes.”
“Half the organization comes down.”
“Maybe it should.”
That shocked everyone.
Even Vincent.
Marco stared.
“What?”
Vincent looked at Elena.
At the woman whose partner had died because men like them believed protecting power justified anything.
Then he looked back.
“I buried one child.”
His voice roughened.
“I lost another before I knew his name belonged to me.”
He pointed toward the hallway.
“I have a granddaughter sleeping in this house.”
Marco’s face changed.
“I am not sacrificing a third generation to keep our table intact.”
For several seconds, no one spoke.
Then Rebecca’s phone buzzed.
She looked down.
Her expression sharpened.
“What?”
Vincent asked.
“Someone leaked the DNA test.”
Elena went pale.
“To who?”
“Press.”
Vincent stood.
Rebecca continued.
“It’s already online.”
She turned the screen.
MORETTI’S SECRET HEIR? MAID’S CHILD LINKED TO BILLIONAIRE CRIME FAMILY.
A photograph showed Elena leaving the laboratory with Mia.
Mia’s face had been blurred by the publication.
For now.
Marco looked at Vincent.
“This wasn’t me.”
Vincent believed him.
That frightened him more.
Only six people knew the confirmed result.
Vincent.
Elena.
Rebecca.
The laboratory.
Marco.
And the security chief.
Unless someone had been watching before the test.
Marco’s expression changed.
“Vincent.”
“What?”
“If people know she is Matteo’s child, they know what the trust does.”
Elena looked between them.
“What trust?”
Vincent’s stomach dropped.
He had not told her yet.
Marco answered.
“Mia doesn’t just inherit Matteo’s name.”
Vincent turned toward him.
“Stop.”
Too late.
Marco looked at Elena.
“She inherits his Moretti interest.”
Elena stared.
“How much?”
Vincent closed his eyes briefly.
Then told her.
“At current valuation?”
“Yes.”
“About nine hundred million dollars.”
Elena sat down.
No one spoke.
May you like
Three-year-old Mia Rossi had gone from the daughter of a housekeeper to one of the wealthiest children in New York in less than forty-eight hours.
And somewhere outside Greystone, people who had built careers assuming Vincent Moretti would die without an heir had just learned the same thing.
