Chapter 2 - THE GIRL WHO KNEW MY MOTHER'S NAME
“Are you the Dante who made my mommy cry?”
The question struck harder than any threat I had received in twenty years.
I remained on one knee, holding Sophie's pink sneaker.
Behind me, Angelo shifted uncomfortably.
“What did you say, sweetheart?”
Sophie frowned.
“I asked if you're Dante. Mommy says that name sometimes when she thinks I'm sleeping.”
My mouth went dry.
There were plenty of women who had cried because of me. Some had loved me. Others had feared me.
But something about this little girl's eyes made one particular woman rise from a place in my memory I had spent six years trying to bury.
“What is your mother's name?”
Sophie reached for her sneaker.
“First, can I have my shoe?”
I handed it over.
She sat directly on the expensive stone walkway, pulled it onto her foot, and struggled with the laces.
Without thinking, I helped her.
“Mommy says I should never tell strangers where we live,” Sophie announced.
“Your mother sounds smart.”
“She is. But sometimes she cries in the laundry room.”
My hands stopped moving.
“Why?”
Sophie shrugged.
“She thinks the washing machine is too loud for me to hear.”
I finished tying her shoe.
Then she looked up.
“My mommy's name is Elena Carter.”
The world seemed to lose its sound.
Elena.
For six years, I had trained myself not to say that name.
Elena Carter had once been the only person who looked at me without seeing the Moretti fortune, the armed guards, or the reputation that followed me through New York.
She was a nurse at St. Catherine's Hospital.
I had met her when my younger brother, Marco, was dying.
She had been twenty-seven, stubborn, warmhearted, and completely unimpressed by me.
For eighteen months, she made me believe I could become something other than the man my father had raised.
Then she disappeared.
No goodbye.
No explanation I had ever accepted.
Only a letter left inside my study.
Dante, please don't look for me. I can't live this life.
I had kept that letter locked in my desk.
For six years.
“Boss?”
Angelo's voice pulled me back.
Sophie was examining Bruno, who had lowered his enormous head onto his paws.
“Your dog is nice,” she said. “But he's a thief.”
“He's usually better behaved.”
“Maybe he needs school.”
Despite everything, I almost smiled.
Then I noticed the bracelet around her wrist.
A thin silver chain with a tiny blue enamel star.
My mother had owned one exactly like it.
Not merely something similar.
I knew every scratch on that little star.
I had given it to Elena the winter before she disappeared.
“Where did you get that bracelet?”
Sophie touched it protectively.
“Mommy gave it to me.”
“When?”
“On my birthday. She said it was from somebody who loved her a lot.”
My chest tightened.
I looked at Angelo.
“Find out where she came from. Quietly. And get someone to check the neighborhood for a missing child.”
Sophie immediately stood.
“I'm not missing!”
I turned.
“Then where are you supposed to be?”
“At Mrs. Alvarez's house.”
“Who's Mrs. Alvarez?”
“She watches me when Mommy works.”
“And does she know you're here?”
Sophie considered that.
“Maybe not yet.”
Rico coughed into his fist.
I glanced at him.
He looked away.
“Sweetheart,” I said, “you can't walk into strange houses without telling your grown-ups.”
She pointed toward Bruno.
“He started it.”
Fair enough.
I rose and offered my hand.
“Let's get you home.”
Sophie stared at my hand.
“Are you bad?”
The question was simple.
The answer wasn't.
“Sometimes I've done bad things,” I admitted.
She thought about that.
“Did you say sorry?”
I looked at the little silver star.
“Not enough.”
She slipped her hand into mine.
“Then you should.”
Mrs. Alvarez lived in a modest brick house three blocks from my estate.
The difference between our properties was almost insulting.
My mansion occupied eight acres behind security cameras and iron gates.
Her home had a crooked mailbox, flowerpots along the steps, and a faded welcome mat.
When she saw Sophie climbing from my SUV, she nearly fainted.
“Sophia Carter!”
Sophie winced.
“That's my trouble name.”
The older woman hurried forward.
“Where have you been?”
“Getting my shoe.”
“Your mother is going to have a heart attack!”
Mrs. Alvarez looked at me.
Recognition flooded her face.
And with it came fear.
“Mr. Moretti.”
“Mrs. Alvarez.”
Her eyes moved toward my guards.
“There's no need for all this.”
“I'm only bringing her back.”
She pulled Sophie close.
“Thank you.”
But her voice trembled.
Before I could ask anything else, a small blue sedan turned onto the street.
It stopped so suddenly its tires scraped against the curb.
The driver's door flew open.
And Elena Carter stepped out.
Six years disappeared.
She looked older.
Her blond hair was shorter, pulled into a loose knot. There were shadows beneath her eyes that hadn't existed when I knew her.
But she was still Elena.
The woman I had once loved enough to imagine abandoning everything.
“Sophie!”
She rushed toward her daughter and dropped to her knees.
“Baby, where were you?”
Sophie wrapped both arms around her.
“Bruno stole my shoe.”
“Who?”
“The big dog.”
Elena looked up.
And saw me.
The color drained from her face.
For several seconds, neither of us moved.
Then she stood, positioning Sophie behind her.
“Dante.”
“Elena.”
Her gaze swept across the black SUV, Angelo, Rico, and finally Bruno sitting beside the open door.
“How did you find us?”
“I didn't.”
She looked at Sophie.
Understanding slowly appeared.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
Sophie peeked around her mother's coat.
“Mommy, do you know him?”
Elena closed her eyes.
Just briefly.
“Yes.”
“Is he the Dante?”
Her hand tightened around Sophie's shoulder.
“Sophie, go inside with Mrs. Alvarez.”
“But—”
“Please.”
Something in her mother's voice silenced the little girl.
Sophie obeyed, though not before turning to me.
“Don't forget. Your dog needs school.”
The door closed.
Elena faced me.
“You need to leave.”
“We need to talk.”
“No.”
“Elena, she's five and a half.”
Her expression changed.
I watched fear settle into something harder.
“Don't.”
“She has your eyes.”
“Dante.”
“And that bracelet.”
Elena's lips parted.
“You kept it?”
“I recognized it.”
She took a shaky breath.
Then I asked the question that had been forming since the moment Sophie said her name.
“Is she mine?”
Elena looked toward the house.
For one terrible moment, I thought she would lie.
Instead, she whispered, “Not here.”
It wasn't a denial.
My heart began pounding.
“Elena.”
“Listen to me carefully. You cannot come near her again until I understand what's happening.”
“What's happening?”
She looked toward Angelo.
Then lowered her voice.
“Someone told me you were dead.”
I stared at her.
“What?”
“Six years ago, Dante. Someone showed me photographs. They said you'd been killed because you tried to leave your father's organization.”
My blood turned cold.
“I was never dead.”
“I know that now.”
“Then why didn't you come back?”
Tears filled her eyes.
“Because three weeks later, someone sent me a photograph of my mother's house.”
She swallowed.
“On the back, they wrote that if I ever contacted you again, my baby would never be born.”
I couldn't move.
Elena reached inside her purse and pulled out an old, folded photograph.
It showed her mother's home in Queens.
A red circle had been drawn around an upstairs bedroom window.
But it wasn't the house that made my hands tremble.
It was the handwriting underneath.
I recognized it instantly.
My father's handwriting.
And my father had been dead for four years.
Elena watched me examine the photograph.
“Dante?”
I barely heard her.
Because beneath the red circle were five words.
The Moretti bloodline ends here.
And suddenly I understood something horrifying.
Whoever had forced Elena to disappear hadn't merely wanted us separated.
They had known about Sophie before I did.
Then Elena spoke again.
“There was one more thing.”
I looked up.
“The man who brought me those photographs wore your father's gold watch.”
My breathing stopped.
My father had left that watch to only one person.
My uncle.
Vittorio Moretti.
The man currently managing half my legitimate businesses.
May you like
The man who had helped bury my father.
And the man who was having breakfast inside my mansion at that very moment.
