Chapter 3
PART 3
Pier 6 had been abandoned for twelve years, but Dominic kept the warehouse maintained for conversations that required privacy. It smelled of saltwater, rust, and old wood. Rain ticked against the high windows. Somewhere beyond the walls, boats groaned against their ropes.
Eddie Knox and Luis Marin sat tied to metal chairs beneath a hanging light.
They were young, both in their twenties, both trying to look tougher than they felt. Eddie had a broken nose from Carlo’s men. Luis had a tattoo of a crown behind his ear, the Harbor Crew mark.
Dominic entered without a word.
The two men stopped breathing loudly.
“Mr. Moretti,” Eddie said quickly, “we didn’t know she was connected to you.”
Dominic removed his gloves slowly. “That is the only reason you think you made a mistake?”
Luis started crying first. Not loud. Just tears sliding down his face as he realized legends were easier to laugh at when they were not standing in front of you.
“We were told to scare her,” Luis said. “That’s all.”
“By whom?”
Eddie shook his head. “We say that, we’re dead.”
Dominic pulled a chair across the concrete and sat in front of them. “You are confused. You are already dead in every way that matters. Whether you keep breathing depends on how useful your next sentence is.”
Eddie looked at Luis.
Luis broke. “Anthony Moretti.”
The name did not surprise Dominic. It still hurt.
“My nephew hired you to beat a florist?”
“Not beat,” Eddie said fast. “Search. Get the silver locket and the papers. She wouldn’t give them up. She grabbed scissors. Luis panicked.”
Luis sobbed harder. “There was a kid hiding behind the counter. Eddie said we had to finish it because she saw our faces. I said no. I swear I said no.”
Dominic’s hands stayed calm in his lap. That scared the men more than rage would have.
“What papers?”
Eddie swallowed. “Adoption papers. Hospital records. Some old letter from a woman named Rose. Anthony said Grace Hart found proof she was a Moretti and planned to bring it to you.”
Dominic stared at him.
Thirty years of memory opened like a wound.
Rose had been eight months pregnant when the townhouse burned. Dominic had been told the fire left nothing. But who had told him? His father, who feared softness. Victor, his older brother, who wanted control. The family doctor, who vanished six months later. Everyone involved was dead now except Victor.
And Anthony was Victor’s son.
Dominic stood.
“Carlo,” he said.
“Yes?”
“Call every man still loyal to my name, not Victor’s. Quietly. No mistakes.”
Carlo nodded.
Dominic looked back at Eddie and Luis. “You will write statements. Names. Dates. Payments. Every order Anthony gave you.”
Eddie blinked. “You’re turning us over?”
“I am doing something worse.”
“What’s worse than you?”
Dominic leaned close. “The truth.”
He left them shaking beneath the light.
At the hospital, dawn had begun to stain the windows gray. Lily was asleep in a chair, Rose’s locket clutched in both hands. A nurse had braided her hair and cleaned the blood from her cheeks. She looked painfully young.
Dr. Wallace met Dominic outside the surgical ward.
“She survived,” Wallace said.
Dominic gripped the wall. “Say that again.”
“She survived. She’s critical, but she made it through surgery. She has a concussion, two broken ribs, and heavy bruising. But she is alive.”
Dominic nodded once, unable to speak.
“There’s more,” Wallace said. “She woke for a few seconds before anesthesia pulled her under. She said one sentence.”
Dominic looked up.
“She said, ‘Tell Dominic Moretti that Rose didn’t die in the fire.’”
The hallway tilted.
Wallace took Dominic by the arm. “Sit down.”
Dominic did not sit. If he sat, he might never stand again.
Rose didn’t die in the fire.
The sentence tore through thirty years of lies.
“Did she say where Rose is?”
“No. She lost consciousness.”
Dominic walked to the glass outside Grace’s recovery room.
Grace lay pale against white sheets, machines breathing rhythm beside her. Lily had once asked if he was a bad man. Looking at Grace, Dominic knew the answer was not past tense. He had become the man his enemies invented because his own family had stolen the life that might have saved him.
Behind him, Carlo arrived with a folder.
“We searched Anthony’s office,” Carlo said. “Found a payment ledger. Harbor Crew. Judge Rawlins. A retired police captain. And this.”
He handed Dominic a photograph.
It showed Grace at age five, standing beside a nun outside St. Agnes Home for Children. On the back, in Victor’s handwriting, were the words:
Keep her hidden. If Rose talks, remove both.
Dominic’s breath left him.
Rose had lived.
His daughter had lived.
And his brother had buried them in plain sight.
Lily stirred in the chair. Her eyes opened, searching.
“Is Mama alive?” she whispered.
Dominic crossed to her and knelt.
“Yes.”
She threw her arms around his neck.
Dominic held her carefully, as if she were made of glass and miracles.
“Are you crying?” Lily asked.
“No,” Dominic lied.
She pulled back and touched his cheek. “Mama says grown-ups lie when they’re scared.”
Dominic laughed once, brokenly.
Then his phone rang.
Anthony’s voice came through smooth and cold.
“Uncle Dom,” he said, “we need to talk before you make a terrible mistake.”
May you like
Dominic stood slowly, Lily still holding his hand.
“The terrible mistake,” Dominic said, “was thinking I would never find out.”
