The Uncle Who Was Supposed to Be Dead
Chapter 04 - The Uncle Who Was Supposed to Be Dead
Renato Moretti called me that night.
Not the other way around.
Unknown number.
European prefix hidden.
I answered.
“Adrian.”
His voice had aged.
Still unmistakable.
“You should have stayed dead.”
He laughed.
“Salvatore said something similar.”
I looked at Marco.
Speaker.
“Where are you?”
“Not relevant.”
“Why contact Sloan?”
“To make sure the child was alive.”
My jaw tightened.
“Say her name.”
A pause.
“Sophie.”
Better.
“Why?”
“Because she is family.”
“No.”
He laughed again.
“You sound like Elena.”
My blood went cold.
“When did you speak to her?”
“Years ago.”
“Where?”
“New Jersey.”
I looked at Marco.
He looked equally surprised.
“What did you want?”
“To help.”
“No.”
Good.
I had learned something.
Renato sighed.
“I wanted Salvatore to stop pretending the child did not exist.”
“By doing what?”
“Bringing her home.”
“She had a home.”
“With a sick mother and no protection.”
“That was not your choice.”
Silence.
Then:
“You’ve changed.”
“No.”
“Perhaps.”
“What do you want now?”
Renato’s tone shifted.
“Nothing from the girl.”
I did not believe him.
“Try again.”
“I want the truth about your father.”
“What truth?”
“He did not hide Sophie only to protect her from you.”
“What else?”
“He was afraid she could inherit.”
I frowned.
“Inherit what?”
“The Moretti Foundation shares.”
Those were legitimate assets.
Real estate.
Hospitals.
Hotels.
Thirty-one percent had belonged personally to Salvatore.
After his death, they transferred to me.
At least I thought they had.
Renato continued.
“Your father changed the trust three months before he died.”
I looked at Marco.
“Changed how?”
“If a biological grandchild existed at his death, half his voting shares were to be held for that child.”
My chest tightened.
“Twelve million?”
“That’s separate.”
“Why didn’t I know?”
“Because the amendment disappeared.”
“Who removed it?”
Renato was quiet.
Then:
“Ask Marco.”
I turned.
Marco’s face changed.
Not guilt.
Shock.
“I didn’t.”
Renato heard.
“Of course he says that.”
“Evidence.”
“Your father’s notary is alive.”
“Name.”
“Elliot Crane.”
I wrote it down.
Then:
“Why tell me?”
“Because someone else found the amendment.”
“Who?”
“Renato.”
“Who?”
A long pause.
“Your sister.”
I stood.
“I don’t have a sister.”
“Not anymore.”
The line went dead.
Marco stared at me.
“This is manipulation.”
“Probably.”
“Your father had no daughter.”
“Publicly.”
He said nothing.
We found Elliot Crane the next morning.
Nursing home in Connecticut.
Sharp mind.
Weak body.
He remembered the amendment.
“Yes.”
“Biological grandchild?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Crane looked at me.
“Your father said he had done something unforgivable to a little girl.”
Sophie.
“And wanted no one to profit from keeping her hidden.”
My throat tightened.
“Who witnessed?”
“Me. Margaret Sloan. And a woman.”
“What woman?”
Crane closed his eyes.
“Caterina.”
My mother’s name.
Dead twelve years.
Impossible.
“Caterina Moretti.”
“Yes.”
“My mother died before Sophie was born.”
Crane frowned.
Then corrected himself.
“No. Not your mother.”
He struggled.
“Your father’s daughter.”
Silence.
“Name.”
“Caterina Moretti.”
Same name.
Of course old Italian families repeated names until genealogy became revenge.
“How old?”
“Late twenties.”
“Where is she?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who was her mother?”
Crane’s face tightened.
“That was private.”
“Everything is private until it ruins somebody.”
Marco gave me a look.
I ignored him.
Crane finally said:
“Lucia Ferraro.”
I knew the name.
My father’s longtime housekeeper.
Dead six years.
She had lived with us through my teens.
Kind.
Invisible.
Apparently not invisible to Salvatore.
The arithmetic worked.
Half-sister.
Hidden.
Another child my father had erased while lecturing everyone about family.
“Did she sign the amendment?”
“No.”
“Then why was she there?”
“Your father wanted her to know Sophie would not displace her.”
“Displace.”
I hated the word.
“She was also a beneficiary?”
“Yes.”
There.
The missing amendment likely divided voting shares between two hidden descendants.
Sophie.
Caterina.
My father had built an inheritance structure around children he refused to acknowledge publicly.
I left the nursing home sick with anger.
Then Elena called.
Not me.
Marco.
He handed me the phone.
“Adrian?”
Her voice was wrong.
“What happened?”
“Sophie didn’t come out of school.”
Everything in me stopped.
“Say that again.”
“She wasn’t at pickup.”
“Police?”
“Already called.”
“Teacher?”
“Says an authorized woman signed her out.”
“What woman?”
Elena’s breathing shook.
“They used my emergency password.”
Only a few people knew it.
Elena.
The school.
Her doctor.
And according to Sloan’s old contingency file—
Marco.
I looked at him.
He went pale.
“No.”
I believed him.
Which meant someone had gotten the password from records only my father’s old legal network should have had.
Then Elena said:
“The office has a camera.”
“Description?”
Her answer turned the room cold.
“Late twenties. Dark hair.”
A woman.
The school secretary said Sophie called her Aunt Cat.
Caterina.
My hidden half-sister had just taken my daughter out of school.
And for the first time in my life, every instinct told me to send men.
Cars.
Weapons.
Orders.
Then I heard Elena breathing on the phone.
And forced myself to ask:
“What do you want me to do?”
Silence.
Then:
“Come here.”
May you like
That was all.
So I did.
