Chapter 8 - The Son of the Man Vincent KilledThree weeks after the wedding, Scarlet found a photograph on the windshield of her car.
At first she assumed it was some kind of advertisement.
Then she picked it up.
The image showed Vincent leaving Magnolia Bistro the previous evening.
Taken from across the street.
Scarlet’s smile disappeared.
On the back, written in black ink, were six words.
Ask him about Samuel Moretti’s other son.
Scarlet read the sentence twice.
Then a third time.
She looked immediately around the parking lot.
Nothing unusual.
Customers walking.
A delivery truck.
Rosa arguing with a vegetable supplier.
Scarlet took out her phone.
She hesitated.
Old Scarlet might have confronted Vincent immediately.
The Scarlet who had survived lies understood something else.
Truth required patience.
She went inside.
Vincent was in the office reviewing contracts.
He smiled when she entered.
“Good morning.”
Scarlet closed the door.
His smile disappeared.
“What happened?”
She placed the photograph on the desk.
Vincent looked at it.
The blood drained from his face.
Scarlet noticed.
“Who is Samuel Moretti’s other son?”
Vincent did not answer.
“Vincent.”
He slowly sat back.
“I don’t know.”
“That is not the expression of a man who doesn’t know.”
“I knew there were rumors.”
“What rumors?”
Vincent looked at the photograph again.
“My father had affairs.”
Scarlet folded her arms.
“That surprises absolutely no one.”
“One woman claimed he fathered a child.”
“A son?”
“Yes.”
“Did you ever meet him?”
“No.”
“Name?”
Vincent paused.
“Adrian Cole.”
Scarlet stared.
“Cole?”
“His mother’s name.”
“How old?”
“Approximately thirty-three.”
“And you never looked for him?”
Vincent’s jaw tightened.
“I had enough enemies.”
“That is not what I asked.”
“No.”
“Why?”
Vincent stood and walked toward the window.
“When I killed my father, there were consequences.”
Scarlet remained silent.
He continued.
“Men loyal to him wanted revenge. I spent years fighting for control. If Samuel Moretti had another son, that child could have become a symbol for everyone who opposed me.”
“So you ignored him.”
“Yes.”
“Was he a child?”
Vincent closed his eyes briefly.
“About eight.”
Scarlet felt something twist inside her.
“Vincent.”
“I know.”
“You were eighteen.”
“Yes.”
“You knew an eight-year-old might be your brother, and you left him with nothing?”
“I didn’t know where he was.”
“Did you try?”
Vincent did not answer.
Scarlet looked away.
There were still moments when the past shocked her.
Not because she had forgotten who Vincent had been.
But because knowing the outline of darkness was different from touching specific pieces of it.
“What happened to his mother?”
“She died when he was eleven.”
“After that?”
“I don’t know.”
“You never checked?”
“No.”
Scarlet stared at him.
“Then we check now.”
Vincent turned.
“That message may be bait.”
“It probably is.”
“You’re suggesting we walk into it.”
“I’m suggesting that if someone is using this secret against us, we should know what the secret actually is.”
Vincent studied her.
“Marriage has made you reckless.”
“Marriage has made me tired of mysterious photographs.”
Marco found Adrian Cole within six hours.
He returned to Vincent’s office carrying a file.
“Your brother exists.”
Vincent’s face tightened.
Scarlet sat beside him.
“Half brother,” Marco added.
“Where?”
“Milwaukee.”
“What does he do?”
Marco opened the file.
“Owns a logistics company. Cole Freight Systems. Seventy employees. Clean record.”
Vincent looked surprised.
“No organized crime connections?”
“None we found.”
“Family?”
“Divorced. One daughter. Seven years old.”
Scarlet asked, “Does he know about Vincent?”
Marco hesitated.
“Yes.”
“How?”
“His mother kept letters.”
Vincent leaned back.
Marco placed several photocopies on the desk.
Letters from Samuel Moretti.
Scarlet did not read them.
She watched Vincent.
His face became unreadable.
“What did my father write?”
Marco’s voice was careful.
“Mostly promises.”
“Money?”
“Sometimes.”
“Did he provide?”
“Not consistently.”
Vincent laughed bitterly.
“That sounds like him.”
Marco handed over one final page.
“This matters more.”
It was a copy of Adrian’s birth certificate.
Father: Samuel Vincent Moretti.
Vincent stared at the name.
Samuel Vincent.
His own middle name came from his father.
Scarlet saw his hand tremble slightly.
Marco continued.
“Adrian entered foster care after his mother died.”
Vincent looked up sharply.
“For how long?”
“Until seventeen.”
Silence.
“Where was I?”
Marco did not answer.
Vincent did.
“Building the family.”
Scarlet touched his arm.
Vincent pulled away, not angrily, but because guilt had suddenly become physical.
“He was eleven.”
“Yes,” Marco said.
“I had money.”
“Yes.”
“I had people everywhere.”
“Yes.”
“And I never looked.”
Marco said nothing.
Vincent stood abruptly.
“Arrange a meeting.”
Scarlet looked at him.
“Are you sure?”
“No.”
“Good enough.”
Adrian agreed to meet at a quiet restaurant outside Milwaukee.
No guards inside.
No weapons visible.
Scarlet insisted on coming.
When they arrived, Adrian was already seated.
Vincent stopped walking.
The resemblance was not obvious at first.
Adrian had lighter brown hair and blue-gray eyes.
But the shape of his face.
The line of his jaw.
The way he sat with one shoulder slightly forward.
Scarlet saw it.
So did Vincent.
Adrian rose.
“You came.”
Vincent nodded.
“Adrian.”
“Vincent.”
No handshake.
They sat.
Scarlet introduced herself.
Adrian smiled politely.
“I know who you are.”
“Hopefully from newspapers and not surveillance photographs.”
His expression changed.
Scarlet caught it.
“You sent the picture.”
“No.”
Vincent leaned forward.
“Do not lie.”
Adrian looked at him.
“I’m not.”
“Then who knows about you?”
“A lot of people know Samuel Moretti was my father.”
“In my world?”
“I don’t know your world.”
Vincent’s eyes narrowed.
Adrian laughed once.
“You really think everyone is playing mafia chess, don’t you?”
“That mindset kept me alive.”
“And apparently kept you from noticing you had a brother.”
The words landed hard.
Scarlet waited.
Vincent did not defend himself.
“You’re right.”
Adrian blinked.
He had clearly prepared for anger.
Not agreement.
Vincent continued.
“I should have found you.”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t.”
“Yes.”
“I can give reasons.”
“I don’t care about reasons.”
Vincent nodded.
“Then I won’t.”
Adrian stared at him.
For several seconds the brothers sat in silence.
Then Adrian said, “Do you know what foster care is like?”
“No.”
“I moved nine times in six years.”
Vincent lowered his eyes.
“One house locked food in cabinets.”
Scarlet’s chest tightened.
“One foster father liked hitting boys who talked back. Another family only took children because the state paid them.”
Adrian’s voice remained calm.
That made it worse.
“I used to wonder whether my father knew where I was.”
Vincent swallowed.
“Then when I was fourteen, I learned he was dead.”
Adrian looked directly at him.
“And I learned who killed him.”
Scarlet held her breath.
“You.”
Vincent did not look away.
“Yes.”
“For years I hated you.”
“I understand.”
“No, you don’t.”
Adrian’s voice hardened.
“I didn’t hate you because I loved Samuel Moretti. I barely knew him. I hated you because when you killed him, you took the only possibility that maybe one day he would come back.”
Vincent looked as if he had been struck.
Adrian continued.
“And then you became richer than anyone I could imagine while I bounced between homes.”
“I didn’t know.”
“That didn’t make it hurt less.”
“No.”
Scarlet watched Vincent fight every instinct to explain.
He simply accepted the truth.
Finally Adrian looked at her.
“Why did you marry him?”
Scarlet almost smiled.
“That is a very long story.”
“He’s killed people.”
“Yes.”
“He lied to you.”
“Yes.”
“And you trust him?”
Scarlet looked at Vincent.
“I trust the man who tells me the truth now.”
Adrian gave a skeptical laugh.
Vincent said, “You don’t owe me forgiveness.”
Adrian looked back.
“I didn’t come here to forgive you.”
“Why did you come?”
“Because someone has been contacting me.”
Vincent became alert.
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
Adrian pulled out his phone.
Messages.
Photographs of his daughter leaving school.
Images of his office.
A photograph of Scarlet and Vincent’s wedding.
Scarlet went cold.
“What do they want?”
Adrian looked at Vincent.
“They want me to help destroy you.”
“By doing what?”
“Claiming the Moretti inheritance.”
Vincent frowned.
“There is no inheritance claim.”
“There might be.”
Adrian slid a document across the table.
An old handwritten will.
Samuel Moretti’s signature at the bottom.
Vincent read it.
His expression changed.
Scarlet leaned closer.
The document named both sons.
Vincent Moretti.
Adrian Cole Moretti.
Equal beneficiaries of all Moretti family holdings.
“If this is authentic,” Adrian said, “half of everything your father owned belonged to me.”
Vincent stared at the page.
Marco would later confirm that the signature appeared genuine.
But that was not the most dangerous part.
Whoever had found the will knew exactly where to apply pressure.
They were not simply targeting Vincent’s empire.
They were targeting guilt.
Family.
The parts of him that had finally become human.
That night, back in Chicago, Vincent sat awake in the dark.
Scarlet found him at two in the morning.
“What are you thinking?”
“That I stole his life.”
“You didn’t know.”
“I chose not to know.”
She sat beside him.
“That is different.”
“Not enough.”
“What are you going to do?”
Vincent looked toward her.
“Give him half.”
Scarlet blinked.
“Half of what?”
“Everything inherited from my father.”
“That could be hundreds of millions.”
“Yes.”
“Did he ask?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
“Because it was his.”
Scarlet studied him.
A year ago Vincent Moretti would have killed anyone who challenged ownership.
Now he was preparing to give away half an inheritance to a brother who hated him.
“You’re changing.”
“I’m trying.”
Scarlet rested her head against him.
The phone rang.
Marco.
Vincent answered.
“Boss, we identified the paper used for the message on Scarlet’s car.”
“And?”
“It came from Moretti Tower.”
Vincent sat upright.
Scarlet felt cold.
Marco continued.
“Someone inside your legitimate organization is helping whoever is doing this.”
Vincent looked toward the dark windows of their home.
May you like
The enemy was not outside.
It was already inside.
