Chapter 5 - What Sarah Remembered
Sarah Vance had lied to her daughter exactly once.
It lasted thirteen years.
They sat together in the estate’s small chapel because Sarah refused to tell the story in Lorenzo’s office.
“No desks,” she said. “No guards standing over me.”
Lorenzo agreed.
Clara sat beside her.
Gabriel stayed near the door.
Isabella joined them against everyone’s advice.
Sarah folded her hands.
“When I was twenty-eight, I worked nights at St. Vincent’s.”
“As a nurse?” Clara asked.
“Respiratory therapist.”
“You never told me.”
“I left after you were born.”
“Why?”
Sarah looked toward Lorenzo.
“Because of his father.”
Lorenzo’s face tightened.
Sarah continued.
“The night of the bombing, two men were brought into the emergency department under police protection.”
“Two?” Lorenzo said.
Sarah nodded.
“One was badly burned. Unconscious. No identification.”
“The other?”
“Less injured. Broken ribs. Facial burns.”
“Who?”
“I didn’t know then.”
“But you know now.”
“Yes.”
Sarah looked at Isabella.
“One was Matteo Moretti.”
Daniel’s father.
“And the other?”
Sarah’s eyes moved to Lorenzo.
“Vittorio.”
Silence.
Lorenzo stood.
“No.”
Sarah flinched.
Clara reached for her hand.
Lorenzo paced once.
“My uncle died there.”
“Yes.”
“My father?”
“He survived.”
Isabella whispered, “Vittorio.”
Sarah continued.
“Men came to the hospital before dawn. They said they were federal agents.”
“Were they?”
“I don’t know.”
“They removed one patient.”
“My father,” Lorenzo said.
Sarah nodded.
“The other died six hours later.”
“Matteo.”
“Yes.”
Lorenzo pressed both palms against the back of a pew.
His shoulders tightened.
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
Sarah looked at him.
“Because a man followed me home.”
Clara’s blood went cold.
“He told me I had seen nothing. He knew my address. He knew I was pregnant.”
Clara stared.
“With me.”
Sarah nodded.
“I quit two weeks later.”
“Who threatened you?”
“I never knew his name.”
Gabriel asked, “Description?”
Sarah closed her eyes.
“Tall. Gray hair. Scar beneath his left ear.”
Isabella made a sound.
Lorenzo turned.
“Mama?”
She looked sick.
“Vittorio’s security chief.”
Gabriel whispered, “Frank Bellini.”
Lorenzo’s eyes hardened.
“He died in prison.”
“Are you sure?” Clara asked.
Nobody answered.
She laughed without humor.
“Right. Apparently death records aren’t reliable in this family.”
Later, Clara found Lorenzo alone by the lake.
She almost left.
Then he said, “You can stay.”
She stood beside him.
The water was black beneath the clouds.
“My father lived.”
“Yes.”
“He let me bury him.”
Clara said nothing.
“He let my mother grieve.”
“Yes.”
“He let me take over.”
“Maybe that was the point.”
Lorenzo looked at her.
She continued.
“If someone wanted you running the visible business while they controlled things from somewhere else…”
He understood.
“I was a shield.”
“Maybe.”
His laugh was bitter.
“I thought I built everything.”
“You built something.”
“On his foundation.”
“That doesn’t erase thirteen years.”
“It changes them.”
Clara looked at him.
“You hate not knowing.”
“I hate being used.”
“Most people do.”
“No.”
He turned toward her.
“Most people survive it.”
His expression was stripped of the control she had come to associate with him.
For a second he looked nineteen.
She reached for his hand.
Not romantic.
Not calculated.
Just human.
He looked down at their hands.
Then up at her.
The air shifted.
Clara pulled away first.
Neither mentioned it.
By afternoon, Gabriel found Frank Bellini.
Alive.
Living under the name Francis Bell in Tacoma.
They drove there with six men.
The house was empty.
But someone had left in a hurry.
Coffee warm.
Back door open.
Computer wiped.
Clara walked through the kitchen.
A pill organizer sat near the sink.
She stared.
Monday.
Tuesday.
Wednesday.
Empty compartments.
Thursday contained a white tablet.
She photographed it.
“Don’t touch that,” Gabriel said.
“I know.”
In the trash, she saw torn packaging.
Prescription label.
She read the fragments.
Digoxin.
Clara’s pulse jumped.
“Gabriel.”
He came over.
“Digitalis.”
Lorenzo entered.
“Bellini poisoned my mother?”
“Or someone in this house had access to digoxin.”
They searched.
In the bedroom closet, Gabriel found photographs.
Lorenzo.
Isabella.
Daniel.
Clara.
Sarah.
One picture had been taken outside the dialysis center months earlier.
Before Clara ever met the Morettis.
She stared at it.
“That’s impossible.”
Lorenzo looked at Sarah’s photo.
“He knew your mother.”
Clara’s stomach turned.
“Or someone did.”
Gabriel found another box.
Inside were hospital records.
St. Vincent’s.
Sarah Vance.
Vittorio Moretti.
Matteo Moretti.
Every page.
And beneath them—
A photograph of a man.
Older now.
White at the temples.
But unmistakably related to Lorenzo.
Same eyes.
Same jaw.
Lorenzo stared.
“My father.”
On the back was a date.
Three weeks earlier.
Alive.
Clara felt the room shrink.
Then her phone rang.
Unknown number.
She answered.
“Hello?”
A man’s voice.
Older.
Calm.
“You have your mother’s curiosity.”
Clara’s blood froze.
“Who is this?”
Lorenzo heard the change in her breathing.
He stepped closer.
The voice continued.
“Sarah should have forgotten me.”
Clara switched to speaker.
Lorenzo went still.
“Vittorio,” he said.
Silence.
Then a soft laugh.
“My son.”
Every man in the room froze.
Lorenzo looked like he had been struck.
“You poisoned her.”
“My wife has always been sentimental.”
“Did you poison my mother?”
“I corrected a problem.”
Lorenzo’s face changed.
“You touch her again—”
“You still threaten first.”
Vittorio sounded amused.
“I taught you badly.”
“You taught me nothing.”
“I taught you everything.”
Lorenzo’s hand clenched.
“What do you want?”
“The company.”
“You already own shares.”
“I want control.”
“Then come take it.”
Clara looked at him.
Too angry.
Too easy.
Vittorio laughed.
“I will.”
The call ended.
Ten seconds later, Gabriel’s phone rang.
He answered.
His face drained.
“What?”
He looked at Clara.
Her heart stopped.
“What?”
Gabriel lowered the phone.
“Your mother’s transport vehicle was attacked.”
Clara couldn’t breathe.
“She was here.”
“She left twenty minutes ago for dialysis.”
Clara turned toward Lorenzo.
“You said she had security.”
“She did.”
“Where is she?”
Gabriel’s silence answered first.
Lorenzo said, “We’ll find her.”
Clara stepped toward him.
“You promised she was safe.”
“I know.”
“You promised.”
“I know.”
Her hand struck his chest.
Once.
Not hard.
He let her.
“You brought us here.”
“I know.”
“You brought this to her.”
“I know.”
Clara’s voice broke.
“If she dies—”
“She won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
Lorenzo caught her wrists.
“No.”
His voice was low.
“I don’t.”
The truth hurt worse than reassurance.
Then Gabriel received a video.
Sarah sat tied to a chair.
Alive.
Terrified.
Behind her stood Vittorio Moretti.
Older.
Smiling.
He looked directly into the camera.
“Come home, Lorenzo.”
Then he raised a gun and rested it against Sarah’s head.
May you like
“Bring Clara.”
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