Chapter 6 - The Name on the Birth Certificate
The word hung in the air between the crystal chandelier and the marble floor like a loaded weapon.
Elena Brooks.
The maid with the scalded arm. The quiet girl who had spent three months trembling in the corners of my kitchen, terrified of dropping a silver tray, while living under the same roof as the brother she didn't know existed—or perhaps the sister she thought was dead.
"Read that name again," I said. My voice wasn't loud, but the two county deputies instinctively took a half-step backward, recognizing the precise register of a predator whose cage had just been unlocked.
Special Investigator Sterling didn't blink. She held the warrant steady, her eyes fixed on mine. "Section 4, subsection B. The affidavit filed by Miss Vance—acting as legal proxy for the claimant—identifies Elena Brooks as the biological daughter of Catherine Moretti, born October 14, 2001. According to the state vital records office, her birth was never legally registered under Moretti. She was placed in the foster system under an alias to protect the family from the federal racketeering indictments your father was facing at the time."
Up on the landing, Camille’s triumphant smile faltered just a fraction. She hadn't expected Sterling to read the entire clause out loud—she had expected the police to march in, slap cuffs on my wrists for "harboring stolen documents," and clear the way for her to loot the estate before dawn.
"You didn't know, did you, Gabriel?" Camille sneered, gripping the polished wooden banister so hard her knuckles turned white. "You thought you were the only heir left standing in this mausoleum. You thought you could throw me out like a piece of garbage because I broke a tea cup, while living under the same roof as the very secret your father tried to bury at sea!"
I didn't look at Camille. I looked at Marco.
"Get Elena down here," I said.
"Boss, her arm—"
"Bring her down here. Now."
Marco didn't argue. He turned sharply and disappeared down the service corridor toward the medical wing.
Special Investigator Sterling lowered the warrant slightly, her professional composure cracking under the heavy, oppressive weight of the room. "Mr. Moretti, if these records are authentic—and our forensic team has already verified the seal on the adoption file—then Elena Brooks isn't just a member of your domestic staff. She is the legal majority owner of fifty-one percent of the Moretti shipping trust under the original 1994 incorporation charter."
The front door creaked open further as a cold gust of wind swept in from the drive, carrying the scent of pine and oncoming rain.
Steps echoed from the hallway.
Elena walked into the foyer, her right arm wrapped in clean white gauze from wrist to elbow, her face pale and drawn. She looked at the police officers, then at the state investigator, and finally up at Camille standing on the landing like an empress surveying a conquered province.
"Why are you all looking at me?" Elena whispered, her voice trembling as she shrank back toward Marco’s shoulder. "I didn't steal anything. I swear I didn't touch the safe."
"You didn't steal anything, Elena," I said, stepping across the marble until I stood directly in front of her. I reached out, my fingers gently touching the uninjured side of her shoulder—the exact same gesture my father used to make when he wanted me to stand tall in a room full of wolves. "You just forgot who your family was."
Camille let out a sharp, hysterical laugh from the stairs. "Oh, stop being so dramatic, Gabriel! She's a servant! Look at her clothes, look at her hands! She spent six months cleaning your toilets and fetching your dry cleaning! She doesn't know the first thing about running a corporate empire!"
"She doesn't have to run it," I said, turning slowly to face Camille with a cold, flat smile that made the investigator step back. "She just has to sign the eviction notice."
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Before Camille could draw another breath to scream, the heavy brass knocker on the front doors banged twice—loud, heavy, and deliberate—followed by the sound of federal marshals stacking up outside the portico.
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