Chapter 6 - THE GHOST OF THE PAST
The boat slammed into a wave, sending a violent shudder through the fiberglass hull.
I clutched Lily tighter to my chest, my heart pounding so hard I thought my ribs would crack. "Dante, who is on the radio? Turn it off!"
Dante didn't answer. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel, his eyes locked on the dark, churning expanse of the river ahead as snow whipped sideways across the windshield. But his jaw was clenched so tight a muscle ticked violently in his cheek.
"You didn't really think Victor told you the whole story, did you, Hannah?" Julian’s voice continued over the radio, calm and conversational, like an old friend chatting across a dinner table. "Ask your dear protector about the fire twenty-five years ago. Ask him who really locked the doors from the outside while your mother screamed for help."
A cold, paralyzing dread flooded my veins. "He's lying," I whispered, though my voice sounded hollow even to my own ears. "Victor saved us... my mother loved him."
"Mr. Moretti was fighting a war to keep the Syndicate from taking over his turf," Dante muttered, his eyes still fixed on the horizon, his voice strained. "Julian twists everything to fit his narrative. Don't listen to him."
"Ask him about the ledger, Hannah," Julian taunted on. "The microchip in that locket doesn't just hold bank accounts. It holds the autopsy report of your grandfather—the man Victor executed in cold blood to seize the Moretti throne. He didn't just lose Elena in that fire. He burned the bridge himself."
The radio hissed into static as Dante slammed his fist against the console, cutting the transmission dead.
The silence that followed was heavier than the storm outside. I looked down at Lily. Her breathing was dangerously shallow, her skin burning with an unnatural heat. The baby didn't even stir when the boat slammed over another large swell.
"Dante," I said, my voice dropping into a dangerous, icy calm. "Tell me the truth. Did Victor kill my grandfather?"
Dante kept his eyes forward for a long, agonizing moment before he let out a heavy, ragged sigh. He cut the throttles slightly, letting the boat glide smoothly into the shelter of a private stone pier jutting out from a secluded, snow-covered cliffside in Montauk.
"Your grandfather, Don Rossi, was a monster, Hannah," Dante said quietly, turning to look at me, his eyes full of sorrow. "He didn't just run drugs; he sold out his own blood to the highest bidder. The night of the fire... Julian had planted a bomb, yes. But Don Rossi was the one who locked the nursery doors from the outside to trap Elena and Victor inside so he could steal the ledger and flee to Europe. Victor fought his way through the flames to save them. He killed Rossi because he had no choice. It was him, or all of them."
The revelation hit me like a physical blow. The monster and the hero blurred together into a tragic, blood-soaked history that I had accidentally inherited.
"And now Julian wants to finish what Rossi started," Dante added, cutting the engines completely. The boat drifted silently against the wooden pier. "Come on. There’s a safehouse up the cliff. Dr. Vance patched a secure comm-line through to the estate before we left. We need to check on Mr. Moretti."
We hurried off the boat, braving the biting wind as we climbed the steep, wooden steps cut into the snowy cliff face. A warm light glowed from the windows of a sprawling stone lodge hidden among the pine trees.
Inside, Dante immediately rushed to a secure laptop console on the desk, typing a rapid series of commands to re-establish the encrypted video feed with the Manhattan mansion.
The screen flickered, static clearing to reveal the interior of the Moretti safe room.
The room was in ruins. Walls were pockmarked with bullet holes, and overturned steel desks littered the floor.
Standing in the center of the devastation, holding a smoking pistol and leaning heavily against a shattered pillar, was Victor Moretti. His suit was torn, and a dark crimson stain soaked through the shoulder of his white shirt.
Across from him, standing with his silver cane resting casually against the floor, was Julian.
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And flanking Julian, holding a heavy tactical knife to the throat of an injured guard, was someone I never expected to see again: my former supervisor from the cleaning company.
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