Chapter 4
PART 4
Anthony chose St. Bartholomew’s for the meeting because he thought churches made men hesitate.
He had forgotten Dominic had buried his soul long before he buried his wife.
The old church stood empty in the morning rain, candles flickering before statues with sorrowful eyes. Dominic entered through the main doors with Carlo at his side. Anthony waited near the altar in a navy suit, his hair slicked back, his smile polished.
Beside him stood Victor Moretti.
Dominic’s older brother leaned on a cane, seventy-two years old, thin as a blade, dressed in black like he was attending somebody else’s funeral. His face had always been sharp, but time had made it cruel.
“Dominic,” Victor said. “You look tired.”
Dominic stopped halfway down the aisle. “I’ve had a long night.”
Anthony lifted both hands. “Before this becomes emotional, let’s remember what we are. We are family. Families have secrets.”
Dominic laughed softly. The sound echoed against the stained glass. “You sent street trash to murder my daughter.”
Victor’s face did not move.
Anthony’s did.
There it was again. Guilt, quick and ugly.
“We sent men to retrieve stolen property,” Victor said. “That woman should have stayed quiet.”
“That woman is my child.”
“That woman is a complication.”
The words landed in the church like a slap.
Dominic took one step forward.
Carlo shifted, ready.
Victor did not flinch. “Rose made you weak. She begged you to leave the business. You were going to hand everything to me and vanish into some seaside fantasy. Father would have disowned you.”
“So you burned my house.”
“I saved the family.”
“You murdered my wife.”
“No,” Victor snapped, and for the first time, anger cracked his calm. “I tried. But Rose crawled out before the flames took the back rooms. She delivered the baby early in a church basement with the help of a nun. By the time my men found them, the child had already been moved.”
Dominic felt every candle flame in the church turn cold.
“Where is Rose?”
Victor smiled faintly. “That’s the question, isn’t it?”
Anthony looked at his father. “You said she died years ago.”
Victor ignored him.
Dominic’s eyes stayed on his brother. “Tell me.”
“She spent years hidden in convents, shelters, cheap apartments. Always one step ahead. Always writing letters she was too afraid to send. Then Grace grew up and started asking questions. Rose tried to contact you.” Victor tapped his cane once against the marble. “I intercepted the letter.”
Dominic remembered the paper in the locket.
Tell Dominic she lived.
His throat burned.
“Where is she, Victor?”
“Gone,” Victor said. “Cancer, six years ago. Quiet little funeral in Vermont. I sent flowers.”
Dominic moved so fast Carlo barely caught his arm.
Victor finally looked afraid.
For one wild second, Dominic wanted nothing but his brother’s blood on the altar. He wanted every year of loneliness answered. Every lie paid back. Every birthday he had missed with Grace. Every first step, first word, first scraped knee, first school play stolen from him.
Then he saw Lily in his mind, asking if he was bad.
Dominic stepped back.
“No,” he said.
Victor frowned. “No?”
“I won’t give you the satisfaction of turning me into the monster you needed me to be.”
Anthony stared at him. “Uncle Dom, listen. We can fix this. Grace doesn’t need to know everything. The kid is young. People forget.”
Dominic looked at him with disgust. “Children don’t forget terror. They build their lives around it.”
Victor’s voice sharpened. “If you expose this, you expose all of us. Every ledger, every judge, every payment. You’ll burn the Moretti name to ash.”
Dominic looked up at the crucifix above the altar.
“For thirty years, I protected the Moretti name because I thought it was all I had left,” he said. “Last night, a little girl ran through rain carrying more courage than this entire family has shown in generations. She gave me back what you stole.”
He turned to Carlo. “Bring them in.”
The side door opened.
Two federal agents entered first, followed by a Boston police detective Dominic had quietly helped years ago when the man’s son needed surgery. Behind them came Eddie and Luis in handcuffs, pale and shaking, ready to trade testimony for survival.
Anthony staggered backward. “You called the Feds?”
Dominic looked at Victor. “I called the truth.”
Victor’s cane slipped.
The agents moved quickly. Anthony shouted. Victor cursed. Carlo watched with satisfaction as both men were cuffed beneath the painted saints.
As agents read the charges, Victor twisted toward Dominic.
“You think they won’t come for you next?” he hissed. “You think you can wash blood off your hands because a child cried?”
Dominic stepped close enough that only Victor could hear him.
“No,” he said. “I think I finally found a reason to stop adding more.”
At the hospital, Grace woke near sunset.
Dominic stood in the doorway, afraid to enter.
She turned her head slowly. Her face was bruised, her lips split, but her eyes were clear.
“Dominic Moretti,” she whispered.
He nodded, unable to trust his voice.
Grace studied him for a long moment. “My mother said you would look like a man who lost the sun.”
Dominic covered his mouth.
Lily climbed carefully onto the bed beside Grace. “Mama, he saved you.”
May you like
Grace looked at her daughter, then back at Dominic.
“No,” Grace said softly. “She saved us both.”
