Chapter 10 - The Son Who Was Never a Morelli
Nobody spoke.
The photograph remained on the chapel floor.
A single piece of paper had just destroyed everything Vincent believed about himself.
His name.
His family.
His blood.
His father.
All of it.
Vincent stared at Victor Bellini.
“You’re lying.”
Victor didn't react.
He had expected that answer.
“Of course you would say that.”
“You expect me to believe a man who disappeared for thirty years?”
Victor smiled slightly.
“Interesting.”
“What?”
“You said the same thing Anthony said.”
Vincent looked at his brother.
Anthony looked away.
That hurt more than the accusation.
Because Anthony wasn't denying it.
Vincent picked up the photograph.
His hands were steady.
His mind wasn't.
The man beside his mother in the picture.
A younger man.
Someone Vincent had never seen.
Someone holding a newborn baby.
Him.
“You're saying this is my father.”
Victor nodded.
“Yes.”
“Name.”
Victor looked at him.
“Thomas Moretti.”
The name meant nothing.
And somehow, that made it worse.
Vincent laughed quietly.
“My whole life, I was told I was a Morelli.”
“You were.”
“No.”
Victor shook his head.
“You were raised as one.”
The distinction was brutal.
Claire looked at Vincent.
He didn't look back.
Because he didn't know what she would see.
A stranger?
A lie?
A man who wasn't who he thought he was?
“Why?”
The word came out quietly.
Victor looked at him.
“Because Salvatore wanted an heir.”
Vincent clenched his jaw.
“My father had three children.”
“No.”
Victor stepped closer.
“He had one son.”
Anthony looked up.
Victor continued.
“And he had a nephew he treated like a son.”
Vincent felt his stomach tighten.
Anthony.
Victor looked at him.
“Your brother was always the one Salvatore wanted to inherit everything.”
Anthony's expression hardened.
“That's not true.”
“It is.”
“No.”
Victor looked at him.
“You know it is.”
Silence.
Vincent remembered.
The dinners.
The arguments.
Salvatore correcting Anthony.
Praising Anthony.
Comparing them.
Anthony was reckless.
Vincent was responsible.
Anthony had passion.
Vincent had discipline.
At the time, Vincent thought it was normal.
A father pushing his sons.
But now...
Maybe it was something else.
“Why me?”
Victor answered immediately.
“Because Thomas Moretti died before he could protect you.”
Vincent looked at him.
“Who killed him?”
Victor didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
Everyone knew.
The room became colder.
“Salvatore.”
Victor nodded.
“Yes.”
Claire covered her mouth.
Anna looked down.
Daniel closed his eyes.
Vincent stared at the photograph.
His father.
The man who raised him.
The man whose name he carried.
The man who taught him everything.
Was the same man who stole his identity.
A strange emptiness replaced anger.
Because anger required certainty.
And Vincent had nothing left.
“Teresa knew.”
Victor nodded.
“She did.”
“She let me believe Salvatore was my father.”
“She was afraid.”
“Everyone was afraid.”
Victor looked at him.
“Because everyone knew what Salvatore did to people who betrayed him.”
Vincent looked at Anthony.
“And you knew.”
Anthony looked at him.
“Not everything.”
“Enough.”
Anthony accepted it.
“Yes.”
Vincent turned away.
“You should have told me.”
“I tried.”
“When?”
“After Thomas died.”
Vincent looked back.
“What?”
Anthony swallowed.
“You were fourteen.”
The room went silent.
“You knew when I was fourteen?”
“Yes.”
“And you said nothing?”
“I was told not to.”
“By who?”
Anthony looked at Teresa's old box.
“Your mother.”
Vincent froze.
“My mother?”
Anthony nodded.
“She made me promise.”
Vincent closed his eyes.
Another promise.
Another secret.
His entire childhood was built on things people refused to say.
“Why?”
Anthony looked at him.
“Because Salvatore was watching you.”
Vincent stared.
“Watching me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Anthony answered softly.
“Because he knew you weren't his.”
The words were almost impossible to hear.
Vincent looked at Claire.
She was watching him.
And somehow, that was the only thing keeping him standing.
Because she understood.
She had lived inside a false identity too.
They were both strangers to their own lives.
Victor moved toward the altar.
“There is something else you need to know.”
Vincent looked at him.
“What now?”
Victor ignored the anger.
“The reason Salvatore changed Claire’s records.”
“We know.”
“No.”
Victor looked at him.
“You don't.”
He removed another document from his coat.
An old hospital report.
Vincent took it.
His eyes scanned the page.
Then stopped.
“What is this?”
“The original birth record.”
Claire stepped closer.
“What does it say?”
Vincent didn't answer.
Victor did.
“It says Claire was born under the name Moretti.”
Claire froze.
“What?”
Vincent looked at the page.
The baby's surname.
Moretti.
Not Bennett.
Not Russo.
Moretti.
His blood.
His family.
But not the family he knew.
Victor continued.
“Thomas Moretti was Claire's biological grandfather.”
Vincent looked up.
“What?”
“Thomas was your father.”
“Yes.”
“And Claire?”
“Your daughter.”
Vincent stared.
“I don't understand.”
Victor looked at him.
“You were never supposed to know.”
A terrible silence followed.
Victor continued.
“Salvatore discovered Thomas had a son.”
Vincent frowned.
“Me.”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“He discovered Thomas also had a granddaughter.”
Claire whispered:
“Me.”
“Yes.”
Victor nodded.
“Salvatore believed the Moretti bloodline threatened his control.”
Vincent looked at the documents.
“So he erased us.”
“Yes.”
“Why keep me?”
Victor answered:
“Because he needed someone to inherit the empire.”
The word felt dirty.
Empire.
Not family.
Not legacy.
Control.
Vincent looked at Anthony.
“And you?”
Anthony smiled sadly.
“I was the son who knew too much.”
Vincent finally understood.
Salvatore didn't choose between brothers.
He destroyed both.
One with lies.
One with fear.
A noise interrupted them.
Footsteps.
Everyone turned.
Marco looked toward the chapel entrance.
“We need to leave.”
Vincent didn't move.
“Why?”
Marco held up his phone.
“The men outside aren't hospital security.”
Victor's face changed.
“They found us.”
Daniel looked at Victor.
“You brought them.”
Victor shook his head.
“No.”
Daniel laughed bitterly.
“You always say that.”
Victor looked at him.
“Because this time it's true.”
A gunshot echoed through the hallway.
Everyone froze.
Claire grabbed Vincent's arm.
Another shot.
Closer.
Marco moved toward the door.
“No.”
Vincent stopped him.
“We need another exit.”
Victor looked toward the back wall.
“There is one.”
Vincent stared.
“Of course there is.”
The old chapel had another hidden passage.
Everything connected to his family had hidden doors.
Hidden rooms.
Hidden truths.
Victor pushed aside a wooden panel.
A narrow tunnel appeared.
Anna looked at him.
“You knew this was here?”
Victor nodded.
“Salvatore built it.”
Vincent looked at him.
“My father built escape tunnels?”
Victor looked back.
“Your father built ways out.”
A pause.
“Only for himself.”
The footsteps outside grew louder.
They entered the tunnel.
Vincent stayed behind for a moment.
He looked back at St. Catherine's chapel.
The place where he had been born.
The place where his life had been rewritten.
The place where everyone had lied.
Then he heard a voice from the hallway.
“Vincent.”
He stopped.
Nobody else reacted.
Because nobody else heard it.
A voice he knew.
A voice that shouldn't exist.
Salvatore Morelli.
“Come here, son.”
Vincent turned slowly.
At the chapel entrance stood a man in the shadows.
Older.
Pale.
Holding a photograph.
A man who had been dead for twenty-three years.
And Vincent knew immediately.
It wasn't a recording.
May you like
It wasn't a memory.
His father was standing there.
