Chapter 8 - THE MAN WEARING DOMINIC’S FACE
The video was convincing.
Too convincing.
Dominic Moretti walked through a parking garage at 1:17 a.m.
Same height.
Same shoulders.
Same charcoal coat.
Same face.
He opened Anthony’s car.
Got inside.
Drove away.
Two hours later, the car was found beside the Chicago River with Anthony’s blood in the passenger seat.
Dominic watched the footage once.
Then said:
“That isn’t me.”
Agent Cole nodded.
“Where were you at 1:17?”
“With Camila.”
Camila answered immediately.
“At the Grand Meridian.”
Cole looked at her.
“Your wife is not independent corroboration.”
“The hotel cameras are.”
“They show you entering the security level before midnight. There’s a forty-eight-minute gap where one corridor feed was disabled.”
Camila frowned.
“Disabled by whom?”
“We don’t know.”
Dominic looked at Vincent.
“Anthony built this.”
Vincent nodded.
“He’s not dead.”
Agent Cole said:
“We haven’t found a body.”
“Because there isn’t one.”
“Maybe.”
Cole was not hostile.
That helped.
“But somebody put Mr. Moretti’s blood in that car and somebody altered or exploited your hotel cameras.”
Camila stared at the footage again.
Something was wrong.
Not the face.
Not the clothes.
Movement.
Dominic walked with controlled economy.
The man in the video did too.
But when he reached the driver’s door, he used his right hand to adjust his coat.
Dominic always used his left.
Because of an old injury.
She looked at his right wrist.
“Show her.”
Dominic frowned.
“What?”
“Your wrist.”
He understood.
An old surgical scar ran along the inside.
He had broken it at seventeen.
Limited rotation.
Camila pointed at the footage.
“That man turns his right wrist fully outward.”
Cole leaned closer.
“It’s not enough.”
“No.”
Camila zoomed.
“But this might be.”
The impostor wore Dominic’s gold watch.
On his right wrist.
Dominic always wore his left.
Cole sat back.
“Good catch.”
Vincent muttered:
“Anthony’s getting sloppy.”
“No,” Camila said.
Everyone looked at her.
“He wants us to catch this.”
Dominic understood.
“If the frame were perfect, we’d focus only on proving innocence.”
Camila nodded.
“But he left flaws.”
“To lead us somewhere.”
Agent Cole frowned.
“Where?”
Camila looked at the timestamp.
1:17.
February 18.
The date Elena’s letter said to investigate.
Camila’s pulse increased.
“What date did Carlo die?”
Dominic answered.
“February eighteenth.”
“What time?”
He looked at Vincent.
Neither knew.
Elena did.
“1:17 a.m.”
Silence.
Anthony had intentionally timestamped the fake Dominic footage at the exact minute Carlo died.
He was sending a message.
Dominic’s expression changed.
“He wants me to know.”
“Know what?” Cole asked.
“That he killed my father.”
Elena covered her mouth.
Vincent looked toward the dark window.
“He’s bragging.”
“No,” Camila said.
“He’s baiting.”
Agent Cole leaned back.
“Into what?”
Camila thought of Anthony.
Everything was layered.
Every revelation forced another search.
Every clue pushed them toward a location.
Grand Meridian.
Room 814.
Lost-and-found.
Now Carlo’s death.
“Where did Carlo die?”
Dominic answered.
“Moretti estate.”
“Which room?”
“My father’s study.”
The estate had been empty for eleven years.
Dominic kept it but never used it.
By afternoon, federal investigators had agreed not to arrest Dominic immediately, largely because the video discrepancies created reasonable questions.
But they restricted his travel.
Anthony’s objective was working.
Dominic was trapped in Chicago.
Camila suspected that was deliberate.
They went to the old Moretti estate under Agent Cole’s supervision.
The house sat beyond iron gates in Lake Forest.
Dust covered furniture.
Portraits watched from paneled walls.
Dominic stopped before one.
Carlo Moretti.
Dark hair.
Same eyes as Dominic.
The resemblance was undeniable.
Vincent stood beside him.
Same jaw.
Different expression.
Brothers.
Carlo had fathered both.
Elena had given birth to Vincent months after Michael and Camila left Chicago.
That truth came out during the drive.
Elena had been pregnant when they fled.
Michael knew the child was Carlo’s.
He stayed with Elena anyway.
But they believed keeping the baby would expose all of them.
So Walter arranged a private adoption.
Anthony found the paperwork.
Took the child.
Raised Vincent as his own.
Camila had spent the drive trying to understand her mother’s life.
Love.
Fear.
Betrayal.
Impossible choices.
She still wasn’t ready to forgive.
But the shape of Elena’s silence was becoming clearer.
Carlo’s study remained mostly untouched.
Dominic opened the door.
A desk.
Bookshelves.
Fireplace.
Old leather chair.
The place where his father died.
“Where was he found?” Camila asked.
Dominic pointed.
“Behind the desk.”
“Who found him?”
“Anthony.”
Of course.
The original coroner ruled heart attack.
Carlo had a known arrhythmia.
No autopsy requested.
Anthony handled the funeral.
Camila examined the room.
“What did your father do the night before?”
Dominic closed his eyes.
“I barely remember.”
“You were twelve.”
“I remember fighting with him.”
“About what?”
“He wouldn’t let me go to a hockey game.”
Vincent looked at him.
“That’s your last memory?”
“No.”
Dominic stared at the desk.
“My last memory is him calling me back.”
Camila waited.
“He gave me a coin.”
“What coin?”
Dominic reached into his pocket.
Camila stared.
“You still have it?”
“I carry it every day.”
Of course he did.
A heavy silver Italian lira.
Old.
Worn.
His father had told him:
Never spend what keeps you honest.
Camila took the coin.
There was a faint line around its edge.
“Dominic.”
He looked.
She twisted.
The coin opened.
Inside was a tiny rolled strip of paper.
Vincent laughed in disbelief.
“Apparently our father hid everything in children’s objects.”
Dominic unfolded it.
Three words.
THE CLOCK LIES.
Everyone looked toward the grandfather clock.
It had stopped decades ago.
1:17.
Camila’s skin prickled.
Dominic opened the casing.
Behind the pendulum was a locked compartment.
Agent Cole called forensic technicians.
Inside they found a small glass vial.
A notebook.
And an old microcassette.
The vial was labeled with Carlo’s name.
Blood sample.
Taken two days before his death.
The notebook contained heart medication schedules.
And one handwritten warning:
A.M. replaced tablets. Do not take.
Dominic sat down.
He did not speak.
Proof.
Not complete.
But closer than he had ever been.
The microcassette was even worse.
Carlo’s voice.
Weak.
Breathing hard.
If I die tonight, Anthony did it.
Dominic shut his eyes.
Camila held his hand.
Carlo continued.
He replaced my medication. Michael knows. Elena knows part. Anthony believes I signed the transfers. I did not.
Then:
Dominic is my son. Vincent is my son. Anthony knows about the baby. If he takes him, protect both boys from him.
Vincent turned away.
Elena began to cry.
Carlo’s final words came through static.
Anthony cannot inherit because my father knew what he was. The trust bars him permanently. But it does not bar the next generation. That is why he wants the boys.
Dominic’s eyes opened.
Anthony had not raised Dominic out of love.
He had raised him because Dominic was a legal path to the trust.
He had raised Vincent for the same reason.
Two sons.
Two potential instruments.
One empire.
Agent Cole whispered:
“This changes everything.”
Then a sound came from the hallway.
A floorboard.
Dominic stood instantly.
His men spread out.
A shadow moved past the door.
Vincent chased.
Camila followed despite Dominic shouting her name.
The figure ran downstairs.
Through the kitchen.
Out toward the rear courtyard.
Dominic caught him near the greenhouse.
Not Anthony.
A young man.
Hotel employee uniform.
Terrified.
He raised both hands.
“Don’t shoot.”
Dominic pinned him against the wall.
“Who sent you?”
The young man shook.
“I don’t know his name.”
“What were you doing here?”
“Taking the cassette.”
“For who?”
“I swear—”
Dominic became very quiet.
Camila stepped closer.
“What did he promise you?”
The man looked at her.
“Money.”
“How much?”
“Fifty thousand.”
“For a cassette?”
“And the coin.”
Dominic’s face hardened.
“How did he know about the coin?”
The man looked confused.
“He said Mrs. Moretti would find it.”
Camila went cold.
Anthony had predicted her again.
“What else did he say?”
The young man swallowed.
“That once she opened the clock, I should call a number.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Two minutes ago.”
Dominic seized his phone.
The outgoing call had lasted three seconds.
No answer.
Just signal.
A trigger.
Camila turned toward the house.
“Everybody out.”
Dominic understood immediately.
“Move!”
They ran.
Thirty seconds later, an explosion shattered the windows of Carlo’s study.
Flames punched outward.
The old room disappeared behind smoke.
Agent Cole shouted for emergency services.
Dominic grabbed Camila.
Vincent pulled Elena behind a stone wall.
The evidence.
The notebook.
The sample.
The original recording.
All inside.
Camila stared at the burning study.
Then Agent Cole held up the microcassette.
“I took it with me.”
Dominic exhaled.
Cole gave him a grim smile.
“Federal agent.”
But Vincent was staring at the flames.
“Anthony didn’t destroy the evidence.”
Camila looked at him.
“What?”
“He knew Cole would carry the cassette.”
Dominic’s face tightened.
“Then why blow the room?”
Vincent pointed toward the grandfather clock.
Or what remained of it.
“To destroy something else.”
Camila remembered the compartment.
Behind the vial.
There had been a second recess.
Empty.
Or so they had thought.
Dominic’s phone buzzed.
A photograph arrived.
Anthony.
Standing somewhere underground.
Holding an old legal document.
The message read:
THANK YOU FOR OPENING THE CLOCK.
May you like
Below it:
NOW I HAVE THE ORIGINAL TRUST.
