Chapter 3 - THE BONES IN THE FOUNDATIONThe morning sun cast long, golden shafts of light across the parquet flooring of the Moretti kitchen.
Unlike the formal dining room with its crystal chandeliers and intimidating portraits of past syndicate bosses, the kitchen had always been my domain. The smell of roasted garlic, brewing chicory coffee, and warm butter still lingered in the air from the years I spent standing at the butcher-block island, teaching Anthony how to knead pizza dough when he was barely tall enough to see over the counter.
Charlotte sat in one of the high-backed wooden barstools, her small legs swinging rhythmically as she used a plastic butter knife to spread strawberry jam over a piece of toast.
Anthony stood by the window, watching his daughter with a look of quiet wonder that still carried the raw edges of the pain he'd endured over the last five years.
"Mom," Anthony said quietly, keeping his voice low so Charlotte wouldn't hear. "Dad has been in his study since six o'clock this morning. He hasn't touched his coffee."
I wiped down the marble counter with a damp cloth. "Your father is realizing that his empire was built on a lot more dirt than he ever cared to look at, Anthony. Discovering that your fiancée was a saboteur is one thing. Discovering what else she might have buried in his records is another."
Just then, the swinging door from the hallway pushed open.
Luca walked in. He had discarded his suit jacket, his white dress shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing the dark ink of the tattoos he’d gotten back when we lived in a cramped two-bedroom apartment over the dry cleaner's on Archer Avenue.
In his hand, he held a thick manila folder stamped with a red confidentiality seal—a seal belonging to the corporate audit division of Moretti Enterprises.
He didn't look at either of us immediately. He walked straight to the refrigerator, pulled out the carton of milk, and poured a splash into his cold black coffee.
"Dad?" Anthony stepped away from the window. "What's in the folder?"
Luca set the mug down on the counter with a dull thud. He looked at me, his dark eyes shadowed with a exhaustion that sleep couldn't fix.
"Vanessa wasn't just working alone, Anthony," Luca said, his voice hard as iron. "Her family didn't lose their fortune three years ago like she claimed. They were bought out. Completely liquidated."
I stopped wiping the counter. "By whom?"
Luca slid a single sheet of paper across the island toward us.
At the top of the document was a corporate letterhead bearing a name I hadn't heard spoken aloud in this house since the day my father passed away.
Vanguard Holdings — Registered in Zurich.
"Vanguard?" Anthony frowned, scanning the legal jargon. "That's an offshore shell company. What does that have to do with Vanessa?"
"Everything," Luca said, leaning his palms flat against the wooden island and staring down at the ink. "Vanguard was founded twenty-six years ago. Right around the time I took over the shipping ports on the south docks. And the primary shareholder—the person who has been quietly buying up the mortgages on every property surrounding our family holdings, including the hospital where Charlotte was born—isn't a corporation at all."
He paused, looking directly at me.
"It's my brother, Dominic."
The kitchen seemed to tilt.
Dominic. Luca’s younger brother, who had supposedly vanished to Europe twenty years ago after a bitter falling out over the expansion of the family business. Luca had always told people his brother was dead to him, a ghost of a past life best forgotten.
"Dominic is dead," I whispered, gripping the edge of the counter. "We went to his memorial in Milan back in 2008."
"That's what I was told," Luca said grimly, tapping the paper with his index finger. "But the signature on this property transfer from three days ago—authorizing the legal harassment of Anthony's medical records—was notarized by a firm in Zurich using Dominic’s personal seal. The same seal our father gave him on his twenty-first birthday."
Anthony shook his head, running a hand through his dark hair. "Wait. If Uncle Dominic is alive... and he's been working with Vanessa... why? What does he want with us?"
Luca stood up straight, his jaw tightening into a hard, unyielding line.
"He doesn't want the shipping ports, Anthony. He doesn't want the mansions, or the cars, or the bank accounts."
Luca looked toward the hallway leading down to the grand entrance, where the heavy ancestral portraits of the Moretti dynasty hung in gilded frames.
"He wants the foundation of this house. Literally."
Before either of us could ask what he meant, the kitchen's private intercom system chimed sharply.
Marco’s voice crackled through the speaker, breathless and laced with an urgency I had never heard from him before.
"Boss! You need to look at the security cameras on the north perimeter immediately. Someone just breached the old carriage house foundation."
May you like
Luca didn't hesitate. He grabbed the heavy leather key ring from the counter hook.
"Come on," he said to Anthony and me. "We're going down to the cellars."
Related Stories
