Chapter 7
Nico had never told me he had a sister.
Not once in three years.
I knew about his father.
His mother, who died when he was twenty-one.
Arthur, who had been closer to him than most relatives.
An uncle in Sicily he disliked.
A cousin who managed investments in London.
But never a sister.
Her name was Isabella Moretti.
She was four years older than Nico.
And according to every official record I could find, she had died sixteen years earlier.
We drove back to New York separately.
That was my decision.
Nico did not argue.
I needed the distance.
Not because I thought he had lied about recognizing her.
His shock had been real.
I needed distance because every time I learned something new about Nico’s family, my own life seemed to rearrange itself around it.
By the time I reached Brooklyn, Mara had turned the conference room into an investigation center.
Documents covered the table.
Arthur stood beside the window.
Diane sat with a cup of coffee she had not touched.
Nico arrived five minutes after me.
Nobody greeted him.
Mara pointed toward the screen.
“Is this Isabella?”
“Yes.”
“You’re certain?”
“Yes.”
“How can she be alive?”
“I don’t know.”
Arthur looked sick.
That caught my attention.
“You knew her?”
I asked.
“Yes.”
“How well?”
“She practically raised us.”
“Us?”
“Nico and me.”
I looked between them.
Arthur continued.
“My father worked for Nico’s father. I spent most of my childhood at their house.”
“What happened to Isabella?”
Nico answered.
“Car accident.”
“Did you see her body?”
“No.”
“Funeral?”
“Closed casket.”
Mara leaned back.
“That should bother everyone.”
“It does now.”
Nico’s voice was flat.
“How old were you?”
I asked.
“Twenty-two.”
“And you never questioned it?”
His eyes hardened.
“I watched her car burn.”
That stopped me.
“You were there?”
“Yes.”
The room became silent.
Nico looked toward the wall as if the memory existed there.
“She called me that night.”
“What did she say?”
“She needed help.”
“With what?”
“She wouldn’t explain.”
“Where was she?”
“Near one of our warehouses.”
“Which warehouse?”
Arthur asked.
Nico looked at him.
“The old DeLuca property.”
Every head turned toward my mother’s documents.
My pulse accelerated.
“What happened?”
I asked.
“I drove there. I saw her car leaving the service road.”
“And?”
“Another vehicle followed.”
“What vehicle?”
“Black SUV.”
“Did you follow?”
“Yes.”
His jaw tightened.
“They reached the expressway. Her car lost control.”
“Lost control?”
“It hit the barrier.”
“Then?”
“Fire.”
His voice changed on the final word.
I had rarely seen Nico show grief.
Anger, yes.
Control.
Frustration.
Possessiveness.
But grief lived differently in his face.
It made him look younger.
“I tried to reach her.”
Arthur looked down.
“Nico.”
“I couldn’t.”
Nobody interrupted.
“The police said she died at the scene.”
“Was there DNA confirmation?”
Mara asked.
“I don’t know.”
“You never checked?”
“I was twenty-two.”
The answer was not defensive.
Just exhausted.
“My father handled everything.”
There it was.
Another parent controlling information in the name of protection.
I almost felt sorry for him.
Then I remembered that sympathy did not erase consequences.
“What did Isabella do for the company?”
“Legal research.”
“Compliance?”
“Sometimes.”
“Property?”
“Yes.”
I looked at the green case on the screen.
“She found something.”
Nico nodded.
“That’s what I’m beginning to think.”
Diane spoke for the first time.
“Celia mentioned Isabella.”
Everyone turned.
“When?”
Mara asked.
“Years ago.”
“What did she say?”
“She called her the ghost shareholder.”
Nico stood.
“What exactly did she say?”
Diane flinched.
He noticed.
Immediately, he stepped back.
It was small.
But I saw it.
He had learned that fear changed conversations.
Diane swallowed.
“She said Moretti Holdings had a ghost shareholder whose ownership had been erased during restructuring.”
“Samuel DeLuca.”
I said it quietly.
Diane looked at me.
“Possibly.”
“Why would Isabella care?”
Nico asked.
“Maybe because she discovered what happened.”
Mara began arranging documents.
“Let’s assume Samuel owned twenty percent.”
Nico nodded.
“Your father bought the company.”
“Yes.”
“What happened to Samuel’s shares?”
“Unknown.”
“Could your father have taken them?”
Nico’s expression hardened.
“Yes.”
Arthur looked at him.
“Nico.”
“We’re not protecting him.”
The sentence surprised everyone.
Especially Arthur.
Nico continued.
“If my father stole those shares, we find out.”
I watched him.
The old Nico had protected his family name almost instinctively.
Now he was choosing truth before reputation.
I wanted to trust that.
I was not ready.
But I noticed.
Mara asked, “What would Isabella have done if she discovered fraud?”
“Confronted him.”
Nico answered immediately.
“Your father?”
“Yes.”
“And what would he have done?”
Nico became quiet.
That silence told me more than words.
“Would he have hurt her?”
I asked.
His eyes met mine.
“I don’t know.”
It was perhaps the hardest answer he had ever given me.
Not because uncertainty was weakness.
Because admitting he did not know meant allowing the possibility.
His father.
His family.
His empire.
All of it.
Arthur suddenly spoke.
“There was another argument.”
Nico turned.
“What?”
“The week before Isabella died.”
“How do you know?”
“I heard them.”
“Who?”
“Isabella and your father.”
Arthur looked toward me.
“She said, ‘You built everything on a dead man’s signature.’”
My skin prickled.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Nico asked.
“I was nineteen.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
Arthur gave him a sad look.
“No. It isn’t.”
The irony was almost unbearable.
Secrets repeating themselves across generations.
Each person believing silence protected someone.
Each silence becoming another weapon.
Mara opened a clean page.
“We need Isabella.”
“If she wants to be found,” Arthur said.
“She let herself appear on hotel cameras.”
I pointed toward the screen.
“She wanted someone to see her.”
“Who?”
Diane asked.
I looked at Nico.
“Him.”
Nico’s phone rang.
Unknown number.
Nobody moved.
He answered.
“Moretti.”
A woman spoke.
We could not hear the words.
But Nico’s face changed.
Not dramatically.
His eyes simply stopped moving.
“Isabella?”
Arthur stood.
The woman continued.
Nico looked at me.
Then he put the call on speaker.
A calm female voice filled the room.
“Hello, little brother.”
Arthur closed his eyes.
Nico gripped the table.
“You’re alive.”
“Obviously.”
“Where are you?”
“Still impatient.”
“Sixteen years.”
His voice cracked.
Only slightly.
But it did.
“You let me believe you were dead for sixteen years.”
Isabella was silent.
Then:
“I had to.”
“No.”
“You don’t know what happened.”
“Then tell me.”
“I will.”
“When?”
“When Elena comes with you.”
Every eye turned toward me.
Nico’s answer was immediate.
“No.”
I looked at him.
Isabella laughed softly.
“There he is.”
“What?”
“The brother I remember. Deciding for everyone.”
Nico’s jaw tightened.
“Elena is not part of this.”
“I’m already part of it.”
I said.
Nico looked at me.
I stepped closer to the phone.
“Why do you want me there?”
Isabella paused.
“Because the documents belong to your family.”
“What documents?”
“The ones Celia has been trying to find.”
“Do you have them?”
“Some.”
“Where is Celia?”
“Closer than you think.”
Diane went pale.
“Is Jonas Pike with you?”
I asked.
“No.”
“Then why were you with him?”
“To make sure Celia saw me.”
I frowned.
“You wanted Celia to know you were alive?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because frightened people make mistakes.”
Nico spoke.
“Where do you want to meet?”
Isabella gave an address.
Mara typed it.
I recognized the neighborhood.
Red Hook.
Brooklyn waterfront.
“When?”
I asked.
“Tomorrow. Noon.”
Nico said, “We choose the location.”
“No.”
“Then no meeting.”
I stared at him.
He saw my expression.
Stopped.
Closed his eyes briefly.
Then corrected himself.
“Elena chooses.”
Isabella laughed again.
“You have changed.”
Nico did not answer.
I asked, “Is the location safe?”
“No place connected to our families is safe.”
“That wasn’t helpful.”
“No.”
Her voice softened.
“But it was honest.”
I thought about it.
“Tomorrow. Noon.”
Nico looked at me.
I continued before he could speak.
“Police know the location. Mara knows the location. I leave whenever I want.”
Isabella said, “Agreed.”
“And no surprises.”
A pause.
“I’ll do my best.”
“That means there will be surprises.”
“There are always surprises.”
The call ended.
Nico stared at the phone.
For a moment, he was not the man who had controlled half my life.
He was a brother who had just heard a ghost speak.
I touched his arm.
Instinctively.
He looked down at my hand.
Then at me.
I almost pulled away.
Instead, I left it there.
Not because he needed me.
Because I chose to.
“You don’t have to go tomorrow,” he said.
“I know.”
“If you want the police to handle it—”
“I know.”
“If you—”
“Nico.”
He stopped.
“I’m going.”
He nodded.
“All right.”
I removed my hand.
Across the room, Mara watched us without comment.
Later that night, I returned home.
There was no police car outside.
I had declined permanent protection after Ruiz helped us install additional locks and cameras.
I entered.
Set down my bag.
Turned on the kitchen light.
The yellow table waited exactly where I had left it.
Then I saw the envelope.
It sat in the center of the table.
Inside my locked apartment.
My body became cold.
I did not touch it.
I backed toward the hallway and called Ruiz.
Police arrived within six minutes.
No sign of forced entry.
No fingerprints.
Nothing disturbed.
The envelope contained one page.
A photocopy of an old ownership certificate.
SAMUEL DELUCA — 20%.
Below it was a handwritten message.
Isabella is lying.
On the back:
Ask Nico who was driving the black SUV.
I read the sentence twice.
Then I called Nico.
He answered immediately.
“What happened?”
“Sixteen years ago.”
My voice sounded unfamiliar.
“The night Isabella’s car crashed.”
Silence.
“What?”
“You said a black SUV followed her.”
“Yes.”
“Who was driving it?”
Nothing.
“Nico.”
His breathing changed.
And suddenly I knew.
“You.”
Another silence.
Longer.
Then:
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
“You were chasing her.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because my father told me she had stolen something.”
“What?”
“I didn’t know.”
“You chased her onto the expressway without knowing?”
“I was twenty-two.”
“Stop using your age like it absolves you.”
“It doesn’t.”
“Did you cause the crash?”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I was fifty yards behind her.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
His voice broke.
“I don’t know.”
And there it was.
The truth.
Ugly.
Incomplete.
Terrifying.
May you like
But truth.
“I may have.”
