Victoria Moretti Had Known About the Twins Before They Were Born
Chapter 03 - Victoria Moretti Had Known About the Twins Before They Were Born
My mother did not answer the first call.
Or the second.
On the third, Marcus said:
“She knows why.”
Of course.
Victoria Moretti believed answering questions gave other people control of the conversation.
She called me twelve minutes later.
“Adrian.”
“Did you know Evelyn was pregnant?”
Silence.
Then:
“You’re in Boston.”
Not an answer.
“Did you know?”
“I knew she claimed she was.”
The word claimed nearly ended the call.
“What does that mean?”
“She was divorcing you.”
“She was carrying twins.”
“We did not know that then.”
“You signed for her letter.”
Silence.
I could hear a clock in my mother’s house.
The same one from the front hall.
I had grown up hearing it.
Tick.
Tick.
“How far along?” she asked.
Not:
Are they yours?
She knew.
“Two and a half years old.”
My mother inhaled.
That was the first honest sound she made.
“Twins?”
“One boy. One girl.”
She did not speak.
I hated that part of me felt satisfaction.
Pain finally reaching the person who had handed it out.
Then:
“Adrian, come home.”
“No.”
“We do not discuss family matters over the phone.”
“We?”
Her voice changed.
“Do not become theatrical.”
I laughed.
“Did you hide my children from me?”
“No.”
The answer came quickly.
Too quickly.
“I protected you from being manipulated during a hostile divorce.”
My vision narrowed.
“By my pregnant wife?”
“You were not functioning.”
“I was working.”
“You were drinking. Sleeping three hours. Your father had just died.”
That was true.
Not enough.
“The organization was unstable.”
“Not enough.”
“Evelyn was leaving.”
“Still not enough.”
My mother’s voice sharpened.
“She demanded you choose her over the family.”
I stood.
Marcus watched from the other side of the hotel room.
“She asked me to attend a doctor appointment.”
“That is not what I mean.”
Of course.
Victoria said Evelyn wanted a clean exit from Moretti business.
No money tied to illegal operations.
No armed security in the house.
No family meetings during dinner.
No mother-in-law with access codes.
All the things I once described as unreasonable.
Now they sounded like ordinary boundaries.
“What did the letter say?”
Silence.
“Mother.”
“She said she was pregnant.”
“And?”
“She wanted you to contact her through counsel.”
“And?”
Another pause.
“She said she would not raise a child inside the Moretti system.”
My chest tightened.
“Child.”
“We did not know twins.”
The technical correction made me hate her.
“What did you do?”
“I gave it to legal.”
“Which legal?”
“Family counsel.”
Not divorce counsel.
Family counsel.
Men who protected assets.
Reputation.
Continuity.
“What did they advise?”
“That paternity should be confirmed after birth before any acknowledgement.”
“And did anyone tell me?”
Silence.
No.
I closed my eyes.
“Did she write again?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“After the birth.”
My hand tightened around the phone.
“What did it say?”
“I don’t remember exactly.”
“Try.”
“She said they were healthy.”
They.
My mother had known there were two.
“She gave names?”
Another silence.
“Yes.”
“What are their names?”
My mother breathed.
“Luca and Rose.”
My knees nearly failed.
Luca.
My father’s middle name.
Rose.
Evelyn’s mother.
She had named our children while believing I chose not to know them.
Then Victoria said something that changed the shape of the crime.
“I sent money.”
“What?”
“After they were born.”
“To Evelyn?”
“She returned it.”
“How much?”
“Two hundred thousand.”
Of course.
My mother believed a wire transfer could substitute for a father.
“What message?”
“None.”
“Exactly.”
I hung up.
Then called Rebecca Sloan.
Not Marcus.
Not family counsel.
Rebecca.
“Can my mother’s handling of those letters affect custody?”
She took time.
“Potentially as evidence. But stop thinking in terms of winning custody.”
I hated her.
“Think in terms of building a safe relationship the children do not currently have with you.”
That hurt because it was right.
Then Evelyn’s second meeting.
I asked for it.
She agreed the following day.
Same office.
Same lawyers.
This time she brought copies of everything.
Letters.
Emails.
One voicemail transcript.
And a document I had signed during the divorce.
WAIVER OF IMMEDIATE PARENTAGE CLAIMS REGARDING ANY UNBORN CHILD PENDING FORMAL NOTICE AFTER BIRTH.
My signature.
I stared.
“What is this?”
Evelyn looked tired.
“You signed it with the settlement packet.”
“No.”
“You did.”
“My lawyer—”
“Your lawyer sent it.”
My stomach dropped.
Family counsel.
Not Evelyn.
Not Victoria.
My own lawyer.
“I never read this.”
Evelyn’s face hardened.
“That sentence is not the defense you think it is.”
No.
It wasn’t.
The clause did not terminate rights.
It deferred any assertion until formal notice after birth.
Formal notice happened.
My mother intercepted it.
Family counsel acknowledged receipt.
No paternity action filed.
No contact.
Two and a half years.
Then I asked the question I had been afraid of.
“Why Noah?”
Evelyn looked toward her lawyer.
Then back at me.
“Noah is not the children’s father.”
“I know.”
“He is their legal stepfather.”
That word hurt.
“We married when the twins were six months old.”
“Why him?”
Her expression changed.
“Because he showed up.”
Simple.
Cruel.
She met Noah through legal aid while fighting a hospital billing dispute after the twins were born premature.
He was a family-law attorney.
Helped her with records.
Then with housing.
Then childcare paperwork.
Friendship.
Marriage later.
Not rescue.
Life.
“Do they call him Dad?”
Evelyn took time.
“Yes.”
I looked away.
She continued.
“He never asked them to.”
That made it worse.
Then:
“We are separated.”
My eyes returned.
She saw hope and killed it immediately.
“Not because of you.”
“Noah and I were already separated six months before Marcus photographed us.”
I stared.
“Then the photograph—”
“Family day.”
They remained close.
He still saw the children.
Still loved them.
No villain.
Evelyn said:
“He is their parent in every way biology is not.”
I swallowed.
“What does that make me?”
Her face softened for the first time.
“That depends what you do next.”
Then her lawyer handed me one more document.
A sealed paternity test.
Evelyn had ordered it after the twins were born using preserved prenatal samples and a sample from an old medical kit of mine kept in the marital home.
Unconventional.
Legally not enough alone.
Scientifically clear.
Probability of paternity:
99.99 percent for both children.
I stared at the page.
Then Evelyn said:
“Your mother was not the only person who kept you away.”
My head lifted.
“What?”
“Marcus knew I was pregnant before the divorce was final.”
May you like
The room went silent.
And for the first time since the photograph landed on my desk, I realized my right-hand man might have known exactly what he was finding when I told him to look for Evelyn.
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