Chapter 2 - The Sins of the Matriarch
The third-floor study of the Moretti estate was a fortress of mahogany, leather, and bulletproof glass. It was where war councils were held, where territories were carved up, and where men begged for their lives.
Tonight, it smelled of cigar smoke and ancient leather, but the air was thick with tension.
Dominic sat in the large leather chair behind his grand desk. On his lap sat Lily, wrapped in a plush cashmere throw that Dominic had taken from his own couch. She was sipping warm milk from a crystal glass, her small feet dangling over his knee, completely unfazed by the oppressive atmosphere of the room.
Across the desk stood Mary Carter. She was thirty-four, thin, worn down by years of double shifts and grief, wearing the stark black-and-white uniform of the catering company hired for the evening. Her hands were shaking so violently she had to interlock her fingers to keep them still.
Enzo stood by the door, his face pale, guarding the entrance.
"I didn't mean no harm, Mr. Moretti," Mary sobbed softly, wiping a tear from her cheek. "I swear to God! I couldn't afford a babysitter tonight. The shift paid double because of the holiday. I told Lily to stay hidden under the stairs... I didn't know she would walk out..."
"Mary," Dominic said softly, his hand resting protectively over his daughter’s back. "Look at me."
Mary lifted her red-rimmed eyes.
"You took care of her?" Dominic asked.
"Since the day she was born," Mary choked out. "Sophia... Sophia was my younger sister. When she died in that hospital, there was no one else. The hospital said the baby didn't have a father on the birth certificate. I took Lily home. I raised her on a waitress's pay. I did the best I could, sir."
Dominic’s chest tightens. He felt a profound, overwhelming debt to this tired woman who had shielded his child from the cold world when he hadn't been there to do it himself.
"Why didn't you come to me?" Dominic asked, his voice laced with genuine pain. "Why didn't Sophia come to me when she found out she was pregnant?"
Mary let out a bitter, hollow laugh. It was a sound entirely out of place in the grand study.
"Come to you?" Mary whispered. "Mr. Moretti... your mother came to us."
Dominic froze. "What did you say?"
"Four years ago," Mary said, her eyes darkening with old, bitter grief. "Sophia was three months pregnant. She was so happy. She was going to tell you the night of your thirty-fourth birthday. But two days before that, your mother arrived at our apartment in Queens. She brought four armed men. She brought a briefcase filled with five hundred thousand dollars."
Dominic felt the room begin to spin. He gripped the armrest of his chair so hard the leather groaned.
"Go on," Dominic commanded silently.
"Mrs. Moretti told Sophia that a bastard child from a girl with no family background would ruin the Moretti legacy," Mary continued, the words spilling out like poison. "She told Sophia that if she didn't take the money and leave New York forever, she would ensure that you... that you would be framed for the murder of an FBI informant. She said she had the power to put you in federal prison for life, or have Sophia quietly disappeared into the Hudson River."
Mary wiped another tear, her voice trembling with decades of suppressed rage.
"Sophia was terrified. She didn't care about the money. She left the briefcase on the floor and ran. She moved to a basement apartment in Brooklyn, changed her name, worked sixteen hours a day scrubbing floors just to buy baby clothes. She refused to go to a real doctor because she was terrified your mother’s men would track her down."
"She died..." Dominic whispered, his voice barely audible. "She died because she didn't get proper medical care."
"She died of hemorrhage," Mary wept. "Because the back-alley clinic didn't have enough blood bags. Her last words to me were, 'Don't let Mrs. Moretti find Lily. She'll take her away or destroy her.'"
The study descended into a terrifying, suffocating silence.
Dominic didn't yell. He didn't break the glass on his desk. He simply sat there, his fingers stroking his daughter's dark hair while a cold, absolute monster awoke inside his chest.
The woman who had given him life had murdered the only woman he had ever loved, and had condemned his daughter to four years of poverty and fear.
Suddenly, the heavy double doors of the study burst open.
Lucia Moretti stepped into the room. She looked magnificent in her black velvet dress, her diamond necklace sparkling under the chandelier, her eyes sharp and dismissive as she took in the scene. Behind her stood Isabella Vitorio, looking confused and anxious in her golden gown.
"Dominic," Lucia said, her voice sharp and commanding. "What is the meaning of this? The guests are waiting. Isabella’s father wants to raise the final toast, and you are up here with the kitchen staff—"
Lucia stopped. Her sharp eyes landed on the small child sitting on Dominic's lap.
She recognized the face immediately. The resemblance to Sophia Carter was impossible to hide.
May you like
Lucia’s expression hardened, shifting from annoyance to a cold, calculation mask.
"I see," Lucia said softly, stepping into the room and closing the door behind Isabella. "The ghost has returned."
