Chapter 18 - Isabella’s Last Secret
I thought the secrets were over.
That was stupid.
Moretti families apparently bury secrets the way normal families store winter coats.
Two years after our wedding, Sofia called.
“I found something.”
I groaned.
“No.”
“What?”
“No more hidden siblings.”
She laughed.
“Not a sibling.”
“No murder?”
“Probably not.”
“Probably?”
“Elena.”
“What?”
“It’s about Isabella.”
Of course.
Sofia had been cataloging old foundation records.
Inside a safe-deposit inventory, she found a sealed letter.
Addressed to Emma Bellini.
Emma was fourteen.
Why would Isabella write to a child who had been two when she died?
She hadn’t.
The envelope originally said:
To Lucia’s daughter, if Lucia ever needs protection.
Isabella knew Lucia had children.
She had set aside money.
Not enormous Moretti money.
Enough for education.
Housing.
A start.
Isabella had anticipated danger.
“Does Emma get it?”
I asked.
“It’s hers.”
“Conditions?”
“Education and age protections.”
“Good.”
Emma reacted unexpectedly.
“I don’t want blood money.”
Alessandro flinched.
“It isn’t blood money.”
“How do you know?”
Fair question.
Sofia showed her the account history.
Funded from Isabella’s personal inheritance from her grandmother.
No Moretti Maritime income.
No criminal connection they could find.
Emma thought for three weeks.
Then accepted one portion.
To pay for college.
She directed another portion into a fund for homeless children in Manhattan.
“Why?”
I asked.
She shrugged.
“Because somebody should buy shoes.”
I looked down at her yellow sneakers.
She noticed.
“Yes.”
“I remember being barefoot.”
She rarely spoke about that time.
“How much?”
“Enough.”
She smiled.
“Not Gucci enough.”
I laughed.
Emma had developed a dangerous sense of humor.
The fund eventually created emergency family placements so siblings like Emma and Noah did not have to choose between shelters that separated them.
That mattered more to Emma than any Moretti inheritance.
Alessandro attended the first opening ceremony.
A reporter asked:
“Mr. Moretti, do you see this as repairing your family’s legacy?”
Alessandro answered:
“No.”
The reporter looked surprised.
“Why not?”
“Children are not repair tools for adult reputations.”
I looked at him.
Good answer.
He continued:
“This is Emma Bellini’s work.”
“Ask her.”
Emma hated microphones.
She took it anyway.
“We’re buying shoes.”
That became the headline.
Not Alessandro.
Not mafia.
Not murder.
May you like
Shoes.
Exactly right.
