Chapter 5 - THE SECOND CHILD
There are families with secrets.
Then there was the Moretti family.
They had built architecture around them.
Trusts.
Staged funerals.
Hidden children.
Dead men who were not dead.
Money designed to wake only when someone became pregnant.
I was beginning to think normal dysfunction sounded restful.
Alessandro drove back to Seattle himself.
Marco objected.
Alessandro ignored him.
I sat beside my husband because apparently the day had not already contained enough bad decisions.
Sofia, Victor, and Isabella followed in another vehicle.
Nobody spoke for the first ten minutes.
Then I said:
“Another child.”
Alessandro’s hands tightened on the wheel.
“Yes.”
“You knew nothing.”
“No.”
“Do you believe her?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s becoming a family motto.”
He almost smiled.
Then it vanished.
“Emily.”
“What?”
“I am sorry.”
“You already said that.”
“I know.”
“Stop using it like a key.”
His eyes stayed on the road.
“I’m not.”
“What are you using it as?”
“A fact.”
That answer hurt.
In a useful way.
I looked out at the rain.
“I don’t know what to do with you yet.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I may not come back.”
His jaw tightened.
“I know.”
“You hate that.”
“Yes.”
“Would you stop me?”
“No.”
I turned.
The old Alessandro would have.
Maybe not physically.
But with pressure.
Security.
Arguments framed as protection.
“I don’t believe you.”
“That’s fair.”
“Would you really let me leave?”
“No.”
I stared.
He continued.
“I would want to stop you every second.”
“That is not what I asked.”
“I would not use power to make you stay.”
There.
The difference.
I looked away before he saw my face.
By the time we reached the estate, federal police would have been reasonable.
We did not call them.
That was probably our first mistake.
The gates stood open.
Marco’s security team had already surrounded the house.
Nobody had entered the dining room.
Rachel was visible through interior cameras.
Alone.
Sitting at the table.
Gun untouched.
Black card beside her.
Crying.
That did not look like a hostage-taker.
It looked like a hostage.
“Who is controlling the cameras?” Marco asked.
“Internal system.”
“Any remote breach?”
“Not yet.”
Alessandro looked at me.
“You stay here.”
“No.”
“Emily.”
“You are not going to order me around in the same driveway I left six hours ago.”
“This is different.”
“It always is.”
Rachel was my cousin.
Whatever blood said now, she had been mine for twenty-two years.
“I go.”
Alessandro closed his eyes.
Then nodded.
Growth was ugly.
We entered together.
Rachel looked up.
“Emily.”
I crossed the room.
“What happened?”
She stood quickly.
“I don’t know.”
“Start with why you’re here.”
“I got a text from Isabella.”
“I didn’t send it,” Isabella said from the doorway.
Rachel stared.
“What?”
The message instructed her to come to the estate because I had been taken to the hospital.
My pregnancy.
A perfect lure.
“When I got here, the door opened.”
“Who was inside?”
“Nobody.”
“The gun?”
“Already there.”
“The card?”
“Already there.”
Then the dining room screen turned on.
A man appeared.
Sixties.
White hair.
Expensive suit.
I recognized him from one Moretti charity gala.
Councilman Dante Bellini.
Not elected council.
Family council.
Old money.
Older violence.
“Alessandro.”
My husband stepped forward.
“Dante.”
“Lovely evening.”
“Where are your men?”
“Everywhere you stopped looking.”
Marco’s expression hardened.
Dante looked toward me.
“Emily Moretti.”
I hated how he said my name.
“Still beautiful under pressure.”
Alessandro’s voice went cold.
“Do not speak to her.”
Dante smiled.
“There he is.”
Then:
“The problem with you, boy, was always love.”
Alessandro’s shoulders tightened.
I touched his arm.
Not comfort.
Reminder.
Do not react.
Dante saw.
His smile widened.
“Exactly.”
“What do you want?” I asked.
“Truth.”
Nobody in this family ever wanted truth.
They wanted ownership.
“What truth?”
“Which child was Vittorio’s.”
Sofia stepped forward.
“Neither.”
Dante laughed.
“You still lie beautifully.”
Victor moved beside her.
“The baby was mine.”
“One was.”
Silence.
One.
Another child.
Dante continued.
“Sofia had twins.”
Everything stopped.
Alessandro turned slowly toward his mother.
She looked away.
“No.”
Her voice broke.
Dante smiled.
“One girl belonged to Victor. One belonged to Vittorio.”
I stared at Rachel.
One twin.
Where was the other?
Sofia whispered, “She died.”
Dante’s smile disappeared.
“No.”
Victor looked at her.
“Sofia.”
She closed her eyes.
“Vittorio took her.”
The room went silent.
Alessandro spoke very quietly.
“Father took his own daughter.”
“He believed both girls were his until the blood tests.”
“Blood tests?”
“Primitive. Not certain.”
“And?”
“One result excluded him.”
“Victor’s child.”
“Yes.”
“The other?”
“Consistent.”
Dante nodded.
“Vittorio’s daughter.”
Rachel whispered, “My sister.”
Sofia began crying.
I had never seen grief age a person in real time.
“He told me the second baby died.”
Dante said, “He lied.”
“Where is she?”
“That is the question.”
Alessandro looked at Dante.
“You know.”
“I know what Vittorio wrote.”
“What?”
Dante lifted a ledger page.
Another page forty-seven.
Duplicate.
Supplemental.
“The second child was placed under Carter protection.”
My skin went cold.
“My family again.”
Dante nodded.
“Deborah Carter protected one twin publicly through Linda.”
Rachel.
“And the other privately.”
My throat tightened.
“No.”
Dante smiled.
“Emily.”
Alessandro turned toward me.
“No.”
I stepped back.
“No.”
My mother had one daughter.
Me.
I had birth records.
Photographs.
A father who adored me.
Except my father died when I was six.
And my mother never remarried.
October fourteenth.
The transfer date.
Not my birthday.
Wait.
My birthday was October fourteenth.
Was it?
All documents said yes.
But what if those documents began with a transfer?
I felt dizzy.
Leah moved toward me.
“Sit.”
“I’m fine.”
“You are seven months pregnant and turning gray.”
I sat.
Dante watched with satisfaction.
“Your mother raised you well.”
“My mother was my mother.”
“Yes.”
“You are not taking that from me.”
“I have no interest in taking love. Only facts.”
Alessandro stepped between the screen and me.
“She is not Vittorio’s daughter.”
“Why so certain?”
“Because then she would be my sister.”
The word poisoned the room.
Dante smiled.
“And your wife is carrying your child.”
Leah said sharply, “That does not prove incest.”
Everyone looked at her.
She continued.
“We do not know biological relationships. And if Emily were Alessandro’s paternal half-sister, standard prenatal testing may have shown unusual shared markers, but nobody appears to have checked for that.”
I felt sick.
Alessandro’s face changed.
Not disgust.
Fear for me.
“Could the baby be harmed?”
“Not automatically. Half-sibling reproduction increases genetic risk, but we are nowhere near knowing this is true.”
Dante looked annoyed by medicine interrupting theater.
Good.
I clung to that.
Facts.
Not horror.
“Why frame me?” I asked.
“To force the marriage apart.”
“Why?”
“Because Vittorio’s will contains a morality clause.”
I laughed despite myself.
“A Mafia patriarch had a morality clause?”
Dante smiled.
“Hypocrisy survives every generation.”
“What clause?”
“If Alessandro knowingly fathers a child with a blood relative, his legitimate holdings transfer to the council trust.”
There it was.
Money.
Always.
“So you want us to believe I’m his sister.”
“Not believe.”
Dante leaned closer to the camera.
“Prove.”
A document appeared on screen.
DNA test.
Emily Carter.
Vittorio Moretti.
Probability of paternity: 99.7%.
My vision blurred.
Alessandro said, “Forged.”
“Perhaps.”
Dante smiled.
“Then test her.”
Leah looked at me.
I looked at Alessandro.
He did not look away.
Not once.
Dante continued.
“But do it quickly. The council meets tomorrow night.”
The screen went black.
Rachel started crying.
Sofia sank into a chair.
Victor looked like he wanted to disappear.
I sat very still.
Then Alessandro came to me.
He crouched.
Not touching.
Waiting.
“Emily.”
I stared at him.
“What if it’s true?”
His face went white.
“Then everything changes.”
My throat closed.
Wrong answer.
He saw it instantly.
“Not you.”
I looked at him.
“Not our daughter.”
His voice broke.
“Not what I feel.”
I laughed bitterly.
“If I am your sister—”
“You are my wife.”
“That is not romantic anymore.”
“I know.”
Finally.
Honesty.
Leah spoke quietly.
“We can settle this within hours using independent labs.”
“No Moretti lab,” I said.
“No.”
“No family doctor.”
“No.”
“No trust.”
“No.”
I looked at Alessandro.
“If the test says Vittorio was my father?”
He swallowed.
“Then we deal with truth.”
Together?
He did not say it.
Maybe he was afraid.
Maybe I was.
My phone buzzed.
Another message.
Not Dante.
Unknown.
A photograph of Deborah Carter holding two newborn girls.
One wrapped in pink.
One in white.
On the back:
I SAVED BOTH.
Beneath the image:
EMILY IS NOT VITTORIO’S DAUGHTER.
RACHEL IS NOT VICTOR’S.
SOFIA LIED TO PROTECT THE WRONG TWIN.
I looked at Rachel.
She looked at me.
Two women raised as cousins.
Possibly twins.
Possibly not.
Then another message arrived.
IF YOU WANT THE ORIGINAL DNA RESULTS, ASK MARCO WHY HE HAS KEPT THEM FOR TEN YEARS.
Every eye turned toward Marco.
For the first time since I met him, the security chief looked afraid.
While Leah arranged the testing, Rachel sat beside me in the library.
For several minutes, neither of us spoke.
Then she asked, “If we’re sisters, what happens?”
I looked at her.
“We panic.”
She laughed weakly.
“And then?”
“We get facts.”
“And if we aren’t?”
“You’re still Rachel.”
“That sounds like something people say when they’re terrified.”
“It is.”
She looked down at her hands.
“I keep thinking about Aunt Deborah.”
My mother.
“She knew something.”
“Yes.”
“Do you think she lied to us because she loved us?”
I hated how difficult that question was.
“Sometimes love and fear make the same bad decision.”
Rachel nodded slowly.
“Would you have told me?”
I thought of my unborn daughter.
Of all the things I already wanted to shield her from.
“I hope so.”
“That’s not yes.”
“No.”
She looked at me.
At least she appreciated honesty.
I continued.
“I think parents convince themselves secrecy buys time. Maybe sometimes it does. But eventually the bill comes due.”
Rachel smiled sadly.
“And apparently ours has interest.”
That made me laugh.
For a moment we were not possible heirs, hidden daughters, or entries in a trust.
We were cousins sitting together the way we had when she was twelve and afraid to tell Linda she had failed algebra.
Whatever the test said, that history was real.
I reached for her hand.
She squeezed mine.
“Okay,” she said. “Facts first.”
“Facts first.”
Outside the library, Alessandro watched us.
He did not interrupt.
May you like
Another small thing.
Another choice.
