Chapter 13 - The Daughter Carlo Raised
Vivian was twenty-nine.
Carlo had raised her from birth.
There were photographs.
Birth announcements.
Private-school records.
Family Christmas cards.
Everyone knew Vivian DeMarco as Carlo’s only daughter.
Everyone was wrong.
“Who is her father?”
I asked.
Carlo sat inside Eleanor’s conference room.
His hands looked suddenly old.
“Renato Moretti.”
Vincent stood.
“What?”
Carlo did not look at him.
“Her mother was my wife.”
The room froze.
“Renato had an affair with her.”
Carlo swallowed.
“I learned the truth when Vivian was four.”
“Why raise her?”
Carlo looked angry.
“She was four.”
That answer told me more about him than anything else had.
“She was my child by then.”
“What happened to her mother?”
“Cancer.”
“Did Vivian know?”
“No.”
“Does she now?”
Carlo closed his eyes.
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Six months ago.”
Exactly when Renato contacted her.
I understood.
“He told her.”
“Yes.”
“And that’s how he recruited her.”
“Yes.”
Vincent leaned against the table.
The woman he had intended to marry was his first cousin.
He looked ill.
“Did you know before the engagement?”
Carlo shook his head.
“No.”
“If I had known the two of you were serious, I would have stopped it.”
“You should have told her years ago.”
“Yes.”
Carlo did not defend himself.
That made it worse somehow.
I thought of Vivian.
Her cruelty.
Her entitlement.
Her panic.
None of it excused what she had done.
But suddenly I understood the crack Renato had used to enter her life.
He had given her a secret large enough to destroy her identity.
Then offered himself as the only person willing to explain it.
“What did he promise her?”
I asked.
Carlo looked toward the window.
“That she could inherit.”
“From him?”
“From everyone.”
Vincent laughed once.
Without humor.
“He promised her my seat.”
“And Nora’s trust.”
I stared at Carlo.
“So Vivian knew exactly who I was.”
“No.”
“Then why the photograph?”
“She knew Renato was searching for a woman around twenty-eight carrying Vittoria’s locket.”
“She didn’t know why.”
“When she saw you, she panicked.”
“And decided to whip me.”
Carlo’s face tightened.
“I am not defending her.”
“Good.”
“She believed if she took the necklace and gave it to Renato, he would finally tell her everything.”
“Did he?”
“No.”
Of course not.
People like Renato never gave away the final answer.
They sold the next question.
Vivian requested a meeting that afternoon.
This time I went willingly.
She looked exhausted.
“I know.”
I said it before she could speak.
Her face changed.
“About Renato?”
“Yes.”
She looked away.
“My father.”
“Biologically.”
Her eyes flashed.
“You sound like Carlo.”
“Maybe Carlo deserves that distinction.”
“He lied to me for twenty-five years.”
“He raised you for twenty-nine.”
“You don’t understand.”
“No.”
I leaned forward.
“But I understand being lied to by a parent who believed the lie was protecting you.”
That hit her.
She stared at me.
Then began crying.
I had never expected Vivian DeMarco to cry quietly.
She did.
“I hated you.”
“I noticed.”
“When I saw the necklace…”
She wiped her face.
“I thought you were coming to take everything.”
“I was carrying champagne.”
“I know.”
“You struck me anyway.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Her answer was ugly because it was honest.
“Because I could.”
Silence.
Finally.
No excuse.
No spilled wine.
No misunderstanding.
Power.
She had power over me.
She used it.
Vivian looked at my bandaged arm.
“I’m sorry.”
I didn’t forgive her.
Not then.
Maybe not ever.
But I believed the apology.
“There is something else.”
She slid a flash drive across the table.
“Renato sent me files.”
“What files?”
“Security schedules.”
I looked at her.
“Belladonna?”
“Yes.”
“Who gave them to him?”
She swallowed.
“Luca.”
My stomach tightened.
“Luca says he was helping my mother.”
“Maybe he was.”
“Then?”
Vivian shook her head.
“He wasn’t the person sending them recently.”
“But you said—”
“I assumed.”
She pushed the drive closer.
“The account was registered under Luca’s credentials.”
“Someone copied them.”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“I traced one login.”
My chest tightened.
“Who?”
Vivian looked at me.
“Marco.”
I stood.
She grabbed my wrist.
“Wait.”
I pulled away.
“Don’t touch me.”
She released me immediately.
“Marco isn’t working for Renato.”
“How do you know?”
“Because Renato is afraid of him.”
That stopped me.
Vivian lowered her voice.
“There are two groups inside your uncle’s organization.”
“Vincent’s?”
“No.”
“Renato’s.”
“One follows Renato.”
“And the other?”
She looked toward the mirrored wall.
“They’re waiting for someone to kill him.”
I returned to Belladonna House.
Marco was gone.
His office empty.
On his desk was one envelope.
Addressed to Vincent.
Inside was Salvatore Moretti’s missing signet ring.
The ring found beneath the shattered library window had been a duplicate.
This was the original.
And beside it:
A handwritten note.
I KNOW WHERE RENATO IS.
DO NOT FOLLOW ME.
Vincent read it.
Then grabbed his coat.
I blocked the doorway.
“He literally wrote do not follow me.”
“That has never been a persuasive sentence.”
“Vincent.”
He stopped.
“For twenty-eight years, everyone in this family has responded to secrets by creating more secrets.”
I pointed at the note.
“That is how we got here.”
His jaw tightened.
“What do you suggest?”
“We call Mara.”
“You think law enforcement can handle Renato?”
“I think private revenge has had twenty-eight years.”
I looked him in the eye.
“How’s that working out?”
Vincent said nothing.
Then his phone rang.
Marco.
Vincent answered.
A gunshot sounded through the line.
Then Marco whispered:
May you like
“He knows about Nora.”
The connection died.
