Chapter 3 - THE CREST ON THE NAPKIN
“My father told you I was dead?”
The words tasted like poison. I stared at the crumpled marriage certificate in my hands, the bloodstain completely obscuring the notary’s stamp. The signature was a flawless forgery of my own handwriting.
“We have to get out of here,” Clara said urgently, her eyes darting around the restaurant lobby as the distant wail of police sirens began to echo through the Boston streets. “Dominic, if the Barretts know Marcus is down, they’ll send a strike team. They won’t care who gets caught in the crossfire.”
She didn’t wait for my response. She grabbed Eli and Sam by the hands, herding Leo and Max in front of her. The boys were terrified, clutching the hem of her trench coat, but they didn't cry. They moved with a silent, practiced efficiency that broke my heart. They had been trained to run.
“Luca!” I barked, grabbing Clara’s arm to guide her toward the back exit. “Bring the armored SUV to the alley. Leave Marcus in the trunk of the secondary car. We’re moving.”
The cool night air hit us as we burst through the kitchen service doors. The alley smelled of rain and stale grease. Luca pulled the massive black Escalade up, throwing the doors open.
“Get in, get in,” Clara whispered to the boys, lifting them into the heavy vehicle one by one. I climbed in behind her, slamming the door shut. The heavy armor plating of the SUV instantly muffled the sirens.
“Drive,” I told Luca. “Take us to the safe house in the North End.”
The SUV sped away. The interior was dark, illuminated only by the passing streetlights. The four boys huddled together on the back bench, their wide eyes locked on me. They were a living, breathing mirror of my own childhood.
I turned to Clara. She sat rigidly beside me, her hands gripping her knees.
“Talk to me, Clara,” I said, keeping my voice low so the children wouldn’t panic further. “My father told you I was dead? Why would you believe him? Why didn't you try to find me?”
Clara let out a bitter, exhausted laugh. “I did try to find you, Dominic. I went to the warehouse on the docks. The one you told me never to go to. I saw the explosion. I saw your car burning.”
My stomach plummeted. Six years ago, a rival family had planted a bomb in my vehicle. I had survived only because I was running late, delayed by picking up a bouquet of flowers I was planning to give to Clara. My driver had been killed. I had spent three weeks in a private underground hospital recovering from shrapnel wounds, entirely cut off from the outside world.
“When I woke up, my father told me you had taken the money and run,” I whispered, the devastating realization crashing over me. “He said you were terrified of the violence. He showed me a letter in your handwriting.”
Clara turned to me, her eyes blazing with a sudden, fierce anger. “I never wrote a letter! I was in mourning! Three days after the explosion, your father came to my apartment. He told me the Barrett family had planted the bomb, and that they knew about me. He said if I stayed in Boston, they would kill me to finish the job.”
She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out the blood-stained marriage certificate again.
“He gave me this,” Clara said, her voice shaking. “He said he had pulled strings with a judge to legally backdate a marriage between us. He told me it was the only way to access the emergency funds you had supposedly left for me. He gave me a new identity, a bag of cash, and told me to run. I didn’t even know I was pregnant yet.”
I stared at her, my mind struggling to process the depth of my father’s betrayal. Vincenzo Moretti, the patriarch of the family, the man who demanded absolute loyalty, had orchestrated the destruction of my life. He had removed the woman he deemed "unsuitable" for his empire, using my own near-death experience to manipulate her into vanishing.
“But if you ran,” I asked, trying to piece the puzzle together, “how did the Barretts find you? Why was Marcus guarding you tonight?”
Clara looked down at her hands. “Because the marriage certificate wasn’t a protection, Dominic. It was a trap.”
She unbuttoned the top of her trench coat. Beneath it, she wasn't wearing a simple blouse. She was wearing a high-end, tailored dress. The kind of dress worn to exclusive, high-society events.
“Your father didn’t send me away to save me,” Clara whispered. “He sold me. When I found out I was pregnant with quadruplets, I tried to contact him for medical help. Instead of helping, he traded our location to the Barretts. The Barretts are sterile, Dominic. Sloane Barrett’s father is obsessed with legacy, but his children can’t have heirs.”
The engagement ring inside my jacket pocket suddenly felt radioactive.
“The arranged marriage tonight,” Clara continued, tears finally spilling over. “Sloane wasn’t marrying you for your power. She was marrying you to establish legal guardianship. Your father promised the Barretts that if Sloane married you, he would sign over the boys to her as 'adopted' heirs, merging the two bloodlines permanently. I was just the incubator they kept locked away until the paperwork was ready.”
I felt a cold, murderous rage settle into my bones. My father hadn’t just betrayed me. He had sold my sons like livestock to secure a peace treaty with our greatest rivals.
“They brought me to Boston tonight to say goodbye to them,” Clara choked out, covering her face with her hands. “Marcus was supposed to take the boys to the conservatory after your proposal. Sloane was going to present them to you as a 'surprise' from your father.”
“That’s why you had the gun,” I realized, staring at her in awe.
“I was going to kill Marcus in the bathroom,” Clara admitted, wiping her tears with a fierce, terrifying determination. “I was going to take my boys and run. But then... you walked in.”
Suddenly, Leo, the bravest of the four, leaned forward from the back seat. He tapped my shoulder.
“Mister,” Leo said softly.
I turned around, trying to soften my expression. “Yes, Leo?”
Leo held up a white linen napkin from the restaurant. “The nice man with the ring told me to give this to my new mommy tonight. But I don't want a new mommy.”
He handed me the napkin.
I unfolded it.
Drawn on the napkin, in perfect, precise strokes that a six-year-old could never accomplish, was the crest of the Moretti family—a lion holding a broken sword. But beneath the crest, written in elegant, cursive handwriting, were four words that made the blood freeze in my veins.
Your father is innocent.
I stared at the handwriting. I knew those loops. I knew that sharp, aggressive slant.
It wasn't my father who had betrayed me.
“Clara,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “Who exactly gave Leo this napkin?”
Clara looked at the napkin, her eyes widening in confusion. “The man who brought us to the restaurant. Your father’s right-hand man. Marco.”
My stomach dropped into a bottomless abyss. Marco. My oldest friend. The man who had been managing my security for ten years.
The man who currently knew the exact location of the safe house we were driving to.
Before I could shout an order to Luca, my phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a text message.
May you like
Look out the window, Dominic.
I turned my head just as a massive garbage truck pulled out of a side alley, accelerating directly toward the side of our armored SUV.
