Chapter 7 - The Man Who Had Been Sitting at My Table
Gabriel Santoro was dead.
That should have made him difficult to question.
It did not make him useless.
Dead men leave paperwork.
Emails.
Bank records.
People who remember.
Detective Collins found Gabriel’s former assistant, Helen Ward, living in Florida.
She was seventy-three and initially refused to speak.
Then she saw Chiara’s photograph.
Her expression changed.
“I knew this day would come.”
I flew to Tampa with Collins.
Giulia came because Helen specifically asked whether Teresa’s daughter would attend.
That surprised everyone.
Helen met us in a small sunroom overlooking a canal.
She looked at Giulia first.
“You have Teresa’s eyes.”
Giulia swallowed.
“You knew my mother?”
“We were both scared of the same man.”
“Gabriel?”
Helen shook her head.
“Vittorio.”
Of course.
But Gabriel was the key.
Helen explained he had managed Isabella’s private accounts for decades and considered himself loyal to her above the Moretti business.
When Isabella learned Chiara discovered Dante’s true paternity, she panicked.
Not because she feared me.
Because she feared Vittorio would use the secret to take control openly.
“Why would paternity give him control?” I asked.
“Not legally.”
Helen looked at me.
“Emotionally.”
That hurt because it was true.
Vittorio had raised me as nephew while privately believing he had claim over me as son.
He shaped me because he could not name me.
Chiara threatened to destroy that arrangement.
“What did Gabriel do?”
“Isabella told him to find Chiara’s documents.”
“Not hurt her?”
“No.”
“Then why sabotage the car?”
Helen’s eyes filled.
“He thought Chiara intended to expose Isabella publicly.”
“And?”
“Gabriel worshiped your mother.”
Dangerous word.
“He wanted to scare Chiara into leaving Chicago.”
“By cutting brakes?”
“No.”
Helen shook her head.
“He paid Vale to create a mechanical failure that would prevent the car from starting.”
I stared.
“That is not what happened.”
“I know.”
“Then?”
“Vale subcontracted the work.”
Of course.
“To who?”
Helen whispered:
“Marco.”
My half-brother.
Not dead yet at that point.
Everything aligned horribly.
Marco had returned secretly.
Vittorio thought he had sent him away.
Gabriel found him.
Paid him to disable Chiara’s vehicle.
Marco had a reason to hate every Moretti.
Instead of making the car fail to start, he cut the brake line.
“Did he intend to kill her?”
Helen nodded.
“Why?”
“Chiara had found him.”
“And could expose that he killed Salvatore.”
“Yes.”
My stomach twisted.
So Vittorio had not ordered Chiara’s death.
My mother had not.
Valentina had not.
Gabriel initiated intimidation.
Marco converted it into murder.
Then Vittorio discovered what his son had done.
And solved the problem by killing Marco.
One chain of secrets.
Every person telling themselves they were protecting family.
Every secret producing another grave.
“Did Gabriel know?”
“Afterward.”
“What did he do?”
“He told Isabella.”
“What happened?”
“She wanted to go to police.”
I stared.
“My mother?”
“Yes.”
“What stopped her?”
“Vittorio.”
Of course.
“He told her if Marco’s role became public, investigators would uncover the old operations, Salvatore’s death, your paternity, everything.”
“So she stayed silent.”
“For a year.”
Then Isabella died.
Heart failure.
Or so we believed.
I looked at Collins.
She understood.
“Reopen it.”
The exhumation was not dramatic.
It was painful.
Results showed no obvious poisoning.
Her documented cardiac condition was real.
For once, death had simply been death.
I almost felt relief.
Not everything in my family had been murder.
Back in Chicago, prosecutors obtained enough evidence to arrest Vittorio for crimes connected to Marco’s disappearance, obstruction, financial conspiracy, and historical acts whose exact legal labels mattered less to me than the fact he would finally answer questions somewhere I did not control.
He surrendered through attorneys.
No gunfight.
No final stand.
At his arraignment, he looked at me across the courtroom.
Not uncle.
Not father.
Something between.
Afterward, he requested a monitored meeting.
I agreed.
Valentina begged me not to.
Giulia said nothing.
That mattered more.
Vittorio sat behind glass.
“You look like Salvatore.”
First sentence.
I almost left.
“Not you?”
He smiled sadly.
“You have my temper.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
“And my eyes.”
“I prefer not to think about it.”
“You hate me.”
“Yes.”
He nodded.
“I expected that.”
“Did you love me?”
That question escaped before I could stop it.
Vittorio’s face changed.
“Yes.”
“Then why lie?”
“Because Salvatore was better for you.”
The answer stunned me.
“He knew?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Before he married Isabella.”
“And still married her.”
“Yes.”
“Raised me.”
“Yes.”
“He knew you were my biological father and still let you remain close.”
“Because I promised never to claim you.”
“You claimed everything without using the word.”
Vittorio looked down.
Maybe he understood.
“Did you kill Marco?”
“Yes.”
No hesitation.
My half-brother.
A murderer himself.
Still.
“Why?”
“He killed Salvatore. Then Chiara.”
“You don't get to call murder justice.”
Vittorio smiled bitterly.
“Interesting hearing that from you.”
He was right.
That was the problem.
“I’m trying to become a man who can say it.”
His expression shifted.
“Giulia?”
“What about her?”
“She is changing you.”
“No.”
I thought.
“Mia is.”
A four-year-old had pulled a tape from beneath a piano and forced half a criminal dynasty to confront itself.
Vittorio almost laughed.
“Chiara would like that.”
“Don't speak about her.”
His eyes lowered.
“I did love her.”
“Then why silence her?”
“I tried to protect the family.”
“Everybody keeps saying that.”
I leaned toward the glass.
“Do you know what I finally understand?”
He waited.
“Family was what all of you called whatever you were afraid to lose.”
Vittorio stared.
“Money. Reputation. Control. Secrets.”
I continued.
“Chiara understood family better than any Moretti.”
I stood.
“Family was the person you told the truth to even when it burned.”
He looked older.
“Dante.”
“What?”
“I never wanted her dead.”
“I believe you.”
That surprised him.
“Doesn't help much, does it?”
His face collapsed.
No.
It did not.
I left him there.
Outside, Giulia waited with Mia.
I had not asked her to.
Mia ran toward me.
“Dante!”
She hugged my leg.
The most feared man in Chicago reduced instantly to making sure a child did not fall.
Giulia watched.
“You okay?”
“No.”
“Good answer.”
I looked at her.
“Coffee?”
She hesitated.
Then:
“Yes.”
It was not romance.
Not yet.
It was the first small decision I had made in weeks that did not involve murder, betrayal, inheritance, or blood.
We drank coffee in a hospital cafeteria because Mia had a pediatric checkup nearby.
Terrible coffee.
Plastic chairs.
Perfect.
Then Giulia told me something I did not expect.
“My mother didn't send me into your house for revenge.”
“What?”
“I thought she did.”
She stirred her coffee.
“But one of her last clear days, she said, ‘Don't punish Dante for surviving people who lied to him.’”
My throat tightened.
“She wanted me to find the truth.”
“And?”
“Then leave.”
“Leave what?”
“Your world.”
I looked at Mia coloring beside us.
“Smart woman.”
“Yes.”
“Are you leaving?”
Giulia looked at me.
“Eventually.”
That word hurt more than it should have.
May you like
And that was how I realized the next thing I was afraid of losing was not the Moretti empire.
It was her.
