Chapter 2 - THE SON ANTHONY CHOSE
For several seconds, nobody inside the dark wine cellar moved.
Dominic stood somewhere beside Helen, breathing hard enough for her to hear him.
Rebecca Morrison had gone silent near the safe.
And on the other side of the steel door, Frank Moretti had just said six words that split thirty-nine years of Dominic's life in half.
“Sabrina knows who your real father is.”
Dominic found his voice first.
“Open the door.”
Frank didn't answer.
Dominic slammed his palm against the steel.
“Frank!”
“Not yet.”
“What do you mean, not yet?”
“Kill the recorder.”
Helen looked down.
Anthony's voice was still whispering through the small device in her hand.
She pressed STOP.
Silence returned.
Then Frank spoke again.
“There could be someone listening upstairs.”
Rebecca switched on her phone flashlight.
The beam caught Dominic's face.
He looked furious.
But beneath the anger was something worse.
Fear.
“Open the damn door.”
Rebecca moved toward him.
“Dominic, if Frank is right—”
“I don't care.”
“You should.”
He turned on her.
“You knew my father?”
“Yes.”
“You knew about this room?”
“Yes.”
“You knew about me?”
Rebecca hesitated.
That hesitation nearly broke him.
Dominic laughed once.
Not because anything was funny.
Because there was nothing else to do.
“My father dies, my fiancée starts dividing his money before he's buried, my mother finds a secret attorney, and now everybody in this house apparently knew I wasn't Anthony DeLuca's son except me.”
Helen stepped forward.
“Dominic.”
“Did you know?”
The question stopped her.
He stared at his mother.
“Mom.”
Helen had feared this moment for almost four decades.
She just never imagined it would happen in a locked wine cellar after her husband's funeral.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Dominic took one step backward.
Helen's eyes filled immediately.
“Not everything.”
“You knew he wasn't my father.”
“I knew Anthony wasn't your biological father.”
Dominic looked like she'd struck him.
Rebecca turned away.
Helen tried to touch his arm.
He pulled back.
“Don't.”
“Please listen.”
“Thirty-nine years.”
“It wasn't that simple.”
“It sounds pretty simple.”
Outside, Frank said:
“Dominic, your mother isn't the one who lied first.”
Dominic spun toward the door.
“Then who did?”
Frank didn't answer.
Instead there was a metallic scrape.
Then the lock clicked.
The steel door opened two inches.
Frank stood on the other side.
His gray hair was disheveled. His coat was wet from rain. There was dried blood near his temple.
Helen gasped.
“Frank.”
“I'm fine.”
“You're bleeding.”
“I've been better.”
He stepped inside and immediately shut the door behind him.
Dominic stared.
“You retired?”
Frank looked at him.
“No.”
“Sabrina said—”
“Your father ordered me to disappear.”
“Anthony wasn't my father.”
Frank's expression changed.
“He was your father in every way that mattered.”
“Don't do that.”
“Do what?”
“Give me some sentimental line so nobody has to tell me the truth.”
Frank reached into his coat.
He removed an old leather wallet.
From inside, he pulled a photograph.
The same pregnant woman from Anthony's safe.
Only this photograph was different.
She was sitting on a porch.
Beside her stood a young man Dominic had never seen.
The man's eyes were unmistakable.
Dominic's eyes.
“His name was Michael Moretti,” Frank said.
Dominic stared at the photograph.
Then at Frank.
“No.”
Frank swallowed.
“He was my son.”
Helen closed her eyes.
Rebecca whispered:
“Frank.”
But there was no stopping it now.
Dominic looked back at the photograph.
“My biological father was your son?”
“Yes.”
“And the woman?”
“Margaret Bell.”
“My mother?”
“Yes.”
Dominic looked at Helen.
She looked devastated.
But she did not deny it.
Frank continued quietly.
“Michael was twenty-four. Margaret was twenty-two. They weren't married.”
“Where are they?”
“My son died before you were born.”
The room seemed to shrink.
Dominic gripped the photograph.
“How?”
Frank's jaw tightened.
“That's part of what Anthony was trying to uncover before he died.”
Helen looked at him sharply.
“You told us Michael died in a car accident.”
“That was the official story.”
“What was the real story?”
Frank looked toward the safe.
“Michael found records connecting one of Anthony's legitimate companies to money laundering Anthony didn't authorize.”
Rebecca nodded slowly.
“The forged transactions started that far back?”
Frank looked at her.
“They stopped for years.”
“And then started again,” Rebecca said.
“Three years ago.”
Three and a half years.
Helen felt something cold move through her.
That was almost exactly when Sabrina Cross entered Dominic's life.
Dominic noticed her expression.
“What?”
Helen looked at him.
“Sabrina told me yesterday she'd known you three and a half years.”
Frank's face hardened.
“That isn't a coincidence.”
Dominic shook his head.
“No. Sabrina met me at a charity event.”
“Which charity?” Rebecca asked.
“The DeLuca Children's Foundation.”
“Who invited her?”
Dominic opened his mouth.
Stopped.
“I don't remember.”
Frank did.
“Leonard Walsh.”
Anthony's longtime attorney.
Helen's stomach dropped.
Rebecca moved toward the safe.
“That's why Anthony hired me.”
Frank nodded.
“Anthony stopped trusting Leonard.”
Dominic looked from one person to another.
“You're saying my father's lawyer introduced me to a woman who somehow already knew who my biological father was?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Nobody answered.
Dominic's anger sharpened.
“And Margaret Bell?”
Frank looked down.
“She disappeared shortly after you were born.”
“Disappeared?”
“Anthony told me she entered a protected relocation program.”
“You believed him?”
“For thirty-nine years.”
Rebecca turned toward Frank.
“You don't anymore.”
“No.”
“Why?”
Frank reached inside his coat again.
This time he removed a folded envelope.
“I found this three weeks ago inside one of Anthony's warehouses.”
He handed it to Dominic.
The envelope was yellow with age.
Across the front, someone had written one name.
FRANK.
Dominic opened it.
Inside was a letter.
Frank watched him read.
The handwriting belonged to Margaret Bell.
Frank—
Anthony says this is the only way to keep Dominic alive.
I don't know whether I believe him anymore.
Michael trusted him.
I trusted Michael.
If something happens to me, please understand that I never abandoned my son.
I was told Dominic died at birth.
Three weeks later, I saw Helen DeLuca leaving St. Joseph's with a baby.
That was when I understood.
My son was alive.
And somebody wanted me to believe he wasn't.
Dominic stopped reading.
Helen covered her mouth.
Frank's voice cracked.
“I never saw that letter until three weeks ago.”
Dominic looked at Helen.
“You left the hospital with me?”
Helen nodded weakly.
“Anthony brought you to me the day after you were born.”
“You knew Margaret thought I was dead?”
“No.”
“I swear to you.”
Dominic looked at Frank.
“Where is she?”
“I don't know.”
Rebecca suddenly reached for the unnamed envelope Anthony had left in the safe.
“Maybe Anthony did.”
She emptied it onto the cabinet.
A photograph.
A copy of Margaret's letter.
A bank receipt.
And a storage claim ticket.
Boston South Station.
Locker 317.
Dated six days before Anthony died.
Rebecca frowned.
“Why would Anthony use a train-station locker?”
Frank examined the ticket.
“He wouldn't.”
Helen understood first.
“Unless he couldn't trust the mansion.”
Dominic looked toward the steel door.
“Then we go now.”
Frank blocked him.
“No.”
“My biological mother may have left something there.”
“That's exactly why we don't rush into a public station at two in the morning.”
Dominic stepped closer.
“Move.”
“Your father put me through a wall when I was twenty-three. You're not going to scare me at seventy-three.”
Under any other circumstances, Helen might have smiled.
Dominic didn't.
A noise came from above.
Everyone froze.
A door closed.
Then footsteps crossed the floor over their heads.
Frank extinguished Rebecca's flashlight.
“Somebody's in the cellar.”
Dominic whispered:
“Sabrina?”
Frank listened.
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“She's wearing heels tonight.”
The footsteps overhead were heavy.
Male.
They moved toward the hidden door.
Frank drew a small pistol from the back of his waistband.
Helen had seen him armed thousands of times.
She had never seen him afraid.
Until now.
The footsteps stopped outside.
A man's voice spoke.
“Mrs. DeLuca?”
Paul.
The security guard.
Helen looked at Frank.
Paul had been the man who interrupted her confrontation with Sabrina in Anthony's study.
“Mrs. DeLuca, Mr. Dominic?”
Nobody answered.
The handle moved.
Locked.
Paul tried again.
Then another voice came quietly through the door.
Sabrina.
“I know they're inside.”
Dominic's face went rigid.
Sabrina continued:
“Dominic, open the door.”
Silence.
Then she said something Helen never expected.
“I know Frank told you about Michael.”
Frank's eyes narrowed.
Dominic looked stunned.
Sabrina's voice softened.
“But he hasn't told you why Michael Moretti died.”
Dominic started toward the door.
Frank grabbed his arm.
Sabrina continued from the other side.
“Ask him.”
Frank's face had drained of color.
“Ask Frank who ordered the car off the road.”
Dominic stared at the old man.
Frank said nothing.
May you like
Sabrina delivered the final blow.
“Then ask your mother why Anthony DeLuca was sitting in the passenger seat.”
