Chapter 5 - THE WOMAN WHO CAME BACK FROM THE DEAD
Seven months after Clara Moretti walked out of the Gilded Lily holding her husband’s hand, she learned that happiness could be more frightening than danger.
Danger was simple.
Danger announced itself with guns, broken doors, poisoned glasses, and men waiting in dark warehouses.
Happiness was different.
Happiness gave you something to lose.
At 6:12 on a rainy Tuesday morning, Clara stood barefoot in the bathroom of the Moretti estate and stared at two pink lines.
For nearly a minute, she did not breathe.
The pregnancy test trembled between her fingers.
Outside the bathroom, the bedroom remained dark. Lorenzo was still asleep, one arm stretched across Clara’s side of the bed as if his body had noticed her absence even while his mind had not.
Clara looked at herself in the mirror.
Thirty seconds earlier, she had been Clara Moretti.
Former waitress.
Former nursing student.
Wife of Seattle’s most feared crime boss.
Daughter of Sarah Vance.
Caretaker of Isabella Moretti.
Now there was another word waiting for her.
Mother.
Her free hand moved instinctively to her stomach.
Nothing felt different.
No movement.
No visible change.
Only knowledge.
And knowledge had always been dangerous in the Moretti world.
The bathroom door opened.
Clara spun around.
Lorenzo stood there wearing black pajama pants, his hair disordered from sleep.
A pistol was in his right hand.
Clara stared at it.
“You bring a gun to check why your wife is taking too long in the bathroom?”
“You screamed.”
“I did not scream.”
“You made a sound.”
“What kind of sound?”
“A dangerous one.”
Despite everything, Clara laughed.
Lorenzo’s eyes dropped to the object in her hand.
His entire body became still.
Clara had seen him face assassins without blinking.
She had watched him walk alone into a warehouse occupied by twenty armed men.
She had seen him put a gun against Luca Rossi’s head with less emotion than most people displayed while ordering coffee.
Now Lorenzo Moretti looked terrified.
“Is that…”
“Yes.”
His pistol slowly lowered.
“Are you sure?”
“There are two lines.”
“What does that mean?”
Clara stared at him.
“You control half the docks in Seattle and you don’t know how a pregnancy test works?”
“I know how pregnancy works.”
“Congratulations.”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
She began laughing again.
Then, unexpectedly, tears filled her eyes.
The laughter broke.
Lorenzo placed the gun on the counter and crossed the room.
“Clara?”
“I’m okay.”
“You’re crying.”
“So are you.”
“I am not.”
“You absolutely are.”
He touched his face as if surprised to discover moisture there.
For several seconds neither spoke.
Then Lorenzo sank to his knees.
The most feared man in Seattle placed both hands against Clara’s waist and rested his forehead against her stomach.
The gesture was so vulnerable that Clara’s chest hurt.
“Hello,” he whispered.
She threaded her fingers through his dark hair.
“It’s approximately the size of a sesame seed.”
“I wasn’t talking to you.”
“I figured.”
His arms tightened around her.
Clara closed her eyes.
For one beautiful moment, there were no enemies.
No territories.
No Moretti empire.
No blood.
There was only a husband kneeling before his wife and speaking to a child neither of them had expected.
Then Lorenzo stood.
“We need a doctor.”
“We need breakfast.”
“A doctor.”
“Lorenzo.”
“Today.”
“I’m probably five weeks pregnant.”
“Then we’re five weeks late.”
“That is not how prenatal care works.”
“I’ll call Dr. Whitaker.”
“No.”
He frowned.
“No?”
“I choose my doctor.”
“Of course.”
“And I am going back to nursing school.”
The second statement changed his expression.
They had discussed it before.
Clara had applied secretly three weeks earlier.
She wanted to complete what poverty had forced her to abandon.
Lorenzo had offered to build her a private clinic instead.
Clara had told him exactly where he could put his private clinic.
“You’re pregnant.”
“I noticed.”
“You should rest.”
“I am pregnant, not made of glass.”
“Clara—”
“Don’t.”
He stopped.
She pointed at him.
“That look.”
“What look?”
“The Lorenzo Moretti look that means you’re about to put twelve armed guards around me and ban stairs.”
“I was thinking eight guards.”
“Lorenzo.”
“Six?”
She walked past him.
He followed.
“Four.”
“No.”
“Two.”
“No.”
“One very discreet guard.”
“Your discreet guards look like refrigerators wearing Italian suits.”
He almost smiled.
Almost.
Then someone knocked on the bedroom door.
Three precise knocks.
Lorenzo’s expression changed immediately.
Family time disappeared.
The boss returned.
“Come.”
The door opened.
Matteo Bellini entered.
He had replaced Carlo as Lorenzo’s head of security.
Unlike Carlo, Matteo had served Lorenzo’s father before him and had never seemed interested in money, attention, or promotion.
He was sixty-one, silver-haired, and built like a man who had once been enormous and remained dangerous despite age.
He carried an envelope.
“We have a problem.”
Lorenzo glanced toward Clara.
“Can it wait?”
“No.”
Matteo placed the envelope on the table.
“No return address. It was delivered to the eastern gate twenty minutes ago.”
“Who delivered it?”
“A bicycle courier. Teenager. Paid cash by a woman downtown.”
Lorenzo opened the envelope.
A photograph slid onto the table.
Clara looked over his shoulder.
It showed a young woman.
Dark hair.
Approximately twenty-five.
She was standing outside a Catholic church.
On the back were four words.
ASK ISABELLA ABOUT SOFIA.
Lorenzo frowned.
“Who is Sofia?”
Matteo said nothing.
That silence was the answer.
Lorenzo looked at him.
“You know.”
“I know the name.”
“Then speak.”
Matteo’s jaw tightened.
“Not from me.”
Lorenzo’s voice became dangerously soft.
“You work for me.”
“I worked for your father first.”
“And?”
“And some secrets belong to the dead.”
Clara looked again at the photograph.
The young woman had Lorenzo’s eyes.
Not similar.
The same.
Cold black irises beneath dark eyebrows.
Clara felt the first movement of unease.
“Lorenzo.”
He saw it too.
Before anyone could speak again, the bedroom door opened.
Isabella stood there.
She wore a cream robe and carried a cane she rarely needed but enjoyed using for dramatic effect.
Her eyes fell upon the photograph.
The color disappeared from her face.
“Where did you get that?”
Lorenzo turned toward his mother.
“You know her.”
Isabella gripped the cane.
“Where did you get that photograph?”
“Who is Sofia?”
Isabella closed her eyes.
When she opened them again, she suddenly looked older.
Much older.
“Sofia Moretti was your father’s daughter.”
Silence.
Rain struck the windows.
Lorenzo stared at his mother.
“My father had another daughter?”
Isabella shook her head.
“Not another daughter.”
Her voice broke.
“His first daughter.”
Clara’s stomach tightened.
Lorenzo did not move.
“Explain.”
Isabella walked slowly toward the chair and sat.
“Before your father married me, he loved a woman named Elena Russo. They were young. Too young. She became pregnant.”
Lorenzo’s face remained blank.
That frightened Clara more than anger would have.
“What happened?”
“Your grandfather would not allow the marriage. Elena was not from an important family. He sent her away.”
“And the child?”
“A girl. Sofia.”
“Where is she?”
Isabella looked at the photograph.
“She died.”
Matteo finally spoke.
“That is what we were told.”
Lorenzo looked at him sharply.
“Were told?”
Matteo swallowed.
“There was a fire in the house where Elena lived. Elena died. The child’s body was never conclusively identified.”
Clara picked up the photograph.
The woman outside the church was alive.
And if Isabella’s story was true, she might be Lorenzo’s half sister.
Or someone wanted them to believe she was.
“Why now?” Clara asked.
Everyone looked at her.
She turned the photograph over.
“Whoever sent this waited decades. Why send it now?”
Lorenzo’s gaze sharpened.
That was the question he should have asked.
Clara continued.
“Luca Rossi is dead. Carlo is dead. Your rivals know the Moretti family is recovering. Your marriage strengthened your public image. Isabella survived. The business is stable.”
She placed the photograph on the table.
“If I wanted to destabilize Lorenzo, I wouldn’t attack the gates.”
She looked at her husband.
“I’d attack the family.”
Isabella whispered something in Italian.
A prayer.
Lorenzo reached for the envelope again.
Something else was inside.
A folded piece of paper.
He opened it.
One sentence had been typed in black ink.
YOUR FATHER STOLE HER LIFE. NOW SHE WILL TAKE YOURS.
Clara’s happiness from twenty minutes earlier suddenly seemed very far away.
Lorenzo folded the note.
“Matteo.”
“Yes?”
“Find her.”
“Alive?”
Lorenzo looked at the photograph of the woman who might share his blood.
“Yes.”
Then he turned to Clara.
“You’re going to your mother’s.”
“No.”
“Clara.”
“No.”
“You are pregnant.”
Matteo’s head snapped toward her.
Isabella gasped.
For approximately three seconds, the threat was forgotten.
“You are what?”
Clara closed her eyes.
“Wonderful timing.”
Isabella stood so quickly her cane fell.
“A baby?”
“Apparently.”
Isabella screamed.
Actually screamed.
Then she hugged Clara.
Matteo smiled for the first time Clara had ever seen.
Lorenzo did not.
His joy from the bathroom had disappeared beneath fear.
Someone had threatened his family on the morning he learned he was going to become a father.
Clara understood what that combination would do to him.
It would make him dangerous.
Possibly irrational.
She took his hand.
“Look at me.”
He did.
“We do this together.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I will not risk you.”
“You married me knowing exactly who I was.”
“I married you because of who you are.”
“Then don’t turn me into someone else because you’re afraid.”
His jaw tightened.
Clara lowered her voice.
“You taught me something without realizing it.”
“What?”
“You can’t protect the queen by locking her off the board.”
His eyes moved toward hers.
For a moment, the old chessboard existed between them again.
Then Lorenzo looked at Matteo.
“Double security.”
Clara opened her mouth.
“For everyone,” he added. “Not only Clara.”
She accepted the compromise.
For now.
Three hours later, Matteo located the woman in the photograph.
Her name was Sofia Russo.
She had checked into a small hotel near Pioneer Square using a New York driver’s license.
By the time Moretti security reached the hotel, she was gone.
But she had left something behind.
A black chess queen.
And beneath it, another note.
TELL LORENZO HIS FATHER NEVER WON THE GAME.
That evening, Clara stood in the Moretti library staring at the queen.
Lorenzo entered behind her.
“Doctor confirmed it.”
Clara turned.
He held a medical folder.
Pregnant.
Healthy.
Five weeks and four days.
He crossed to her and placed his hand gently against her stomach.
“You and the baby leave tomorrow.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere no one knows.”
“You mean somewhere I don’t know.”
“Yes.”
“Then I’m not going.”
His hand fell.
“Clara.”
She touched his face.
“I know you’re afraid.”
“I am not afraid for myself.”
“I know.”
“That makes it worse.”
His voice was almost inaudible.
She understood.
Lorenzo had spent his entire adult life believing death was a price attached to power.
He could accept his own.
He could not accept hers.
Or their child’s.
Clara kissed him.
“Then find another way.”
His forehead rested against hers.
Outside, lightning moved over the Pacific.
Inside, the black chess queen waited on the table.
Neither of them noticed the tiny red light blinking beneath its base.
May you like
Someone was listening.
And somewhere in Seattle, a woman with Lorenzo’s eyes smiled as every word from the Moretti library came through her headphones.
