Chapter 9 – THE WILL

The funeral for Vincent Moretti was a quiet affair.

There were no businessmen. No mafia bosses. Just me, Anna, Frank, and Serena, standing in the cold Chicago rain under black umbrellas.

Anna held her baby boy tightly against her chest. She had named him Leo, after her grandfather.

David was in federal prison, awaiting trial for kidnapping and racketeering, largely thanks to the ledgers my mother had hidden. Antonio was dead. The syndicate was fractured and scrambling for power, entirely distracted by the FBI raids sweeping the city.

For the first time in thirty years, we were free.

As the priest finished the final blessing over Vincent’s casket, a man in a sharp grey suit approached our small group.

“Mrs. Moretti?” the man asked politely.

“Yes?”

“I am Arthur Vance. Vincent’s attorney. I was instructed to give you this immediately after the service.”

He handed me a thick, sealed white envelope.

I took it, the rain tapping against the paper.

“What is it?” I asked.

“His final will and testament,” the lawyer said. “He drafted it two days before his death.”

The lawyer bowed his head respectfully and walked away.

I stared at the envelope. I almost didn’t want to open it. Vincent’s secrets had nearly destroyed us all. I was terrified of what last lie he had left behind from the grave.

“Open it, Mom,” Anna said softly.

I broke the wax seal.

Inside were a few legal documents, and a handwritten letter addressed to me.

I unfolded the letter.

My dearest Evelyn,

If you are reading this, I am dead, and hopefully, I managed to do one thing right at the end of my life.

I leave the house, the savings, and the legitimate waterfront businesses entirely to you and Anna. Sell them, keep them, burn them down—it is yours.

But there is one final thing I must confess.

Serena is not my daughter.

I stopped reading. The breath caught in my throat.

“What does it say?” Frank asked, noticing my pale face.

I looked at Serena, who was standing a few feet away, mourning the man she thought was her father and her lover.

I looked back down at the letter.

Caterina lied to you, Evelyn. She lied to me, too, for years. Serena is not my child. When Caterina gave birth thirty-two years ago, the baby died three days later in the hospital from a heart defect.

I felt the ground shift beneath my feet.

Caterina was terrified that if Antonio found out Marco’s heir was dead, he would kill her because she was no longer useful. So, she stole a child from the maternity ward. She stole Serena. And she handed her to me to hide.

I covered my mouth in horror.

I found out the truth three years ago when I secretly ran a DNA test. When I realized Serena wasn’t my blood… that is when the affair started. I am a weak, selfish man, Evelyn. But I am not a monster who slept with his own child.

I dropped the letter onto the wet grass.

Serena wasn’t Vincent’s daughter. She was a stolen baby.

Which meant Serena’s real parents had been mourning a missing child for thirty-two years.

And I knew exactly how to find out who they were.

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