Chapter 9 - The Other MorettiMatteo Moretti had been dead on paper for thirty-eight years.
That made him surprisingly difficult to kill.
By morning, Marco had assembled enough records to construct the outline of a life.
Born in Naples.
Mother: Sofia Bellandi.
No father listed.
Transferred to a Catholic orphanage at four months.
Removed at eighteen months by a man calling himself Gabriel Devereaux.
After that, Matteo vanished from official systems.
School records appeared under different surnames.
Corsica.
Geneva.
Tangier.
Buenos Aires.
Always expensive education.
Always private.
Always one step away from Salvatore Moretti’s reach.
“He raised him,” Sophie said.
Alessandro stood beside the window of the Palermo hotel.
“Apparently.”
“And never told you.”
“No.”
“Did your father know?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Money.”
He turned.
“Salvatore made annual transfers to accounts controlled by Devereaux.”
“Child support?”
“Insurance.”
“That is a bleak interpretation.”
“My father did not pay for sentiment.”
Sophie sat at the table.
The photograph of Matteo and Camilla lay between them.
“They found each other.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“The registry.”
“Camilla had access to it after she escaped?”
“Possibly Devereaux showed her part of it.”
“And she sought Matteo because both were his children?”
“No.”
Sophie looked up.
“No?”
“Matteo is not Devereaux’s child.”
“Right.”
She rubbed her temples.
Too many fathers.
Too many lies.
“So why him?”
Alessandro placed another document on the table.
Salvatore Moretti’s original corporate charter.
Old.
Yellowed.
A clause had been highlighted.
In the event of incapacity or death, controlling shares passed to his eldest legally recognized male descendant.
Sophie stared.
“Eldest.”
“Yes.”
“Matteo was born before you.”
“Four years.”
“And legally recognized?”
“Not publicly.”
“But perhaps privately.”
“Exactly.”
“If the document exists, Matteo owns the Moretti holdings.”
“Whatever remains of them.”
“You sold most.”
“I transferred legitimate companies to independent trusts. Closed the criminal ones.”
“Can Matteo reverse that?”
“Not easily.”
“But someone thinks he can.”
“Yes.”
Sophie looked at the threat.
THE NEXT DINNER ENDS THE BOARD.
“What if this is not about ownership?”
“What else?”
“Legacy.”
Alessandro leaned against the table.
“Explain.”
“Your father’s empire collapsed. Russo went to prison. The network became public. Someone spent a year waiting.”
“For Matteo.”
“For both sons.”
Alessandro’s eyes darkened.
“A succession war.”
“Exactly.”
“But I do not want it.”
“Which makes you difficult to control.”
“And Matteo?”
“We don’t know what he wants.”
Alessandro looked at the photograph of his half brother.
“I know what he looks like.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“No.”
For the first time Sophie recognized something beneath his calm.
Fear.
Not of Matteo.
Of wanting him.
A brother.
Family not built from obligation or violence.
Someone carrying the same father’s blood and perhaps the same scars.
Sophie touched the photograph.
“You want to meet him.”
Alessandro’s voice became colder.
“That is irrelevant.”
“Which means yes.”
He looked at her.
“You have become irritatingly confident in interpreting me.”
“Practice.”
“Dangerous hobby.”
“I have worse ones.”
A knock sounded.
Marco entered.
“We found them.”
Sophie stood.
“Where?”
“Agrigento.”
The address belonged to an abandoned coastal villa.
They drove two hours.
No police.
No Devereaux.
Maria had insisted.
“If Camilla ran from men making decisions for her,” she had said, “do not arrive with more men.”
Only Sophie, Alessandro, and Marco went.
The villa stood above the Mediterranean.
Windows open.
White curtains moving in the wind.
Sophie entered first.
A kettle sat warm on the stove.
Someone had been there minutes earlier.
“Camilla?”
No response.
Then footsteps upstairs.
Alessandro moved toward the staircase.
A man appeared.
Matteo.
The resemblance in the photograph had been unsettling.
In person, it was unmistakable.
Same dark eyes.
Same shoulders.
Same way of becoming still before danger.
But Matteo’s face was warmer.
More weathered.
A scar ran from his jaw toward one ear.
He held a shotgun.
Alessandro stopped.
Neither spoke.
Sophie looked between them.
Brothers separated by an empire.
Finally Matteo said, “You look like him.”
Alessandro’s voice was quiet.
“So do you.”
“No.”
Matteo lowered the weapon slightly.
“I learned not to.”
A woman appeared behind him.
Sophie forgot how to breathe.
Camilla.
Her blonde hair was shorter.
She wore no makeup.
No diamonds.
A plain white shirt and jeans.
A scar disappeared beneath her left collarbone.
Alive.
Sophie stood frozen.
Camilla’s eyes filled.
“Well,” she whispered.
“You took your time.”
Sophie crossed the room and struck her.
The slap echoed.
Camilla turned her face slowly back.
“Yes,” she said.
“I expected that.”
Sophie hit her again.
Then pulled her into an embrace.
Camilla broke.
The sound that came out of her was nothing like the polished woman in red silk.
She clung to Sophie.
“I’m sorry.”
“You were alive.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You were alive.”
“I know.”
“I buried you.”
“I know.”
“I stood outside your funeral in the rain because your family said I wasn’t invited.”
Camilla laughed through tears.
“That sounds like them.”
Sophie pushed her back.
“You could have called.”
“I tried.”
“When?”
“Lisbon.”
“I never received anything.”
“I wrote twelve times.”
“Where?”
“I sent them to L’Étoile Noir.”
Sophie’s anger vanished.
“Nothing arrived.”
Alessandro and Matteo looked at each other.
Someone had intercepted the letters.
Camilla wiped her face.
“Then they knew where I was much earlier than we thought.”
Matteo set down the shotgun.
“You should not have come.”
Alessandro glanced at him.
“That welcome appears hereditary.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
Matteo laughed once.
The sound was strange.
Like Alessandro might have sounded if childhood had allowed more sunlight.
“Gabriel said you were arrogant.”
“Gabriel talks too much.”
“He said that too.”
Sophie looked at Camilla.
“How did you find Matteo?”
“My mother left me a name.”
“Where?”
“Inside one of her letters. I did not understand until Gabriel showed me the registry.”
“And Gabriel?”
Camilla’s expression hardened.
“I owe him my life.”
“But?”
“I do not owe him my life choices.”
Sophie understood perfectly.
Camilla looked toward Matteo.
“When I found him, he already knew someone was searching for him.”
“Who?”
Matteo answered.
“A group called the Continuity.”
Alessandro went still.
“What?”
“You know it?”
“My father used that word.”
“When?”
“When lieutenants discussed what happened if leadership disappeared.”
Matteo nodded.
“It is not one group. It is the survivors of several families. Moretti. Russo. Corsican syndicates. shipping companies. politicians. People who lost money when you dismantled the network.”
“They want you as figurehead.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I am Salvatore’s eldest son.”
“And if you refuse?”
“They need a different heir.”
Everyone looked at Alessandro.
Sophie understood the threat.
“Two brothers.”
Camilla nodded.
“One empire.”
“Only one needs to cooperate.”
“And if neither does?”
Matteo looked toward the sea.
“They manufacture a martyr.”
A vehicle approached outside.
Marco moved to the window.
“Three cars.”
Matteo swore.
Camilla went pale.
“How?”
Sophie remembered the intercepted letters.
The restaurant photograph.
The camera beneath the counting house.
“They have been following us.”
Alessandro looked at Marco.
“How many?”
“Eight, maybe ten.”
Matteo picked up the shotgun.
“No.”
Alessandro looked at him.
“No?”
“You do not command here.”
Sophie almost laughed.
Definitely brothers.
Camilla grabbed Sophie’s hand.
“There is a tunnel.”
“Of course there is.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Apparently every building in my life contains a tunnel.”
They descended into a wine storage room.
Matteo opened a trapdoor.
Gunfire shattered a window upstairs.
Alessandro remained near the stairs.
Sophie grabbed his sleeve.
“Do not.”
“I need to slow them.”
“No.”
His eyes met hers.
“I will follow.”
“That is what people say immediately before failing to follow.”
“Sophie.”
She kissed him.
No warning.
No permission.
No careful consideration.
One second.
Maybe two.
His surprise was almost worth the year of frustration.
Then she pulled back.
“You now have something to come back for.”
Alessandro stared at her.
Gunfire sounded again.
Camilla whispered, “Finally.”
Sophie pointed at her.
“Not one word.”
Matteo looked between them.
“I have missed significant family history.”
“Move,” Alessandro said.
They entered the tunnel.
Marco remained behind with Alessandro.
Sophie hated every step away from him.
The tunnel opened eighty yards below the villa near the cliffs.
Camilla climbed out first.
Matteo followed.
Sophie turned.
No Alessandro.
No Marco.
“Where are they?”
“Coming.”
A blast shook the villa.
Smoke rose.
Sophie ran toward the tunnel.
Matteo caught her.
“Wait.”
“No.”
Another explosion.
Then two figures emerged.
Marco first.
Alessandro behind him.
Blood marked his sleeve.
Sophie reached him.
“You are hurt.”
“Not mine.”
She looked at his face.
“You came back.”
His eyes dropped briefly to her mouth.
“I was given unusually persuasive instructions.”
Camilla made a sound.
Sophie glared.
“Still not one word.”
They reached Matteo’s vehicle.
Behind them, the villa burned.
Alessandro looked at his brother.
“What now?”
Matteo started the engine.
“Now we stop running.”
“Meaning?”
Camilla turned from the passenger seat.
“The Continuity invited us to dinner.”
Sophie stared.
“Where?”
Camilla’s smile returned.
Not the cruel smile from L’Étoile Noir.
Something sharper.
Freer.
“Manhattan.”
Alessandro understood first.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
May you like
Camilla looked at Sophie.
“Table four.”
