Chapter 6 - The Memory They Buried With His Mother|
Vincent stared at the photograph for so long that Dr. Hart quietly pulled up a chair beside him.
His hands were shaking.
Not with anger.
With recognition.
I had seen him angry before. I'd watched his guards lower their eyes when he entered a room. I'd seen him silence Lorenzo without speaking a single word.
But this was different.
The man beside me looked like the twelve-year-old boy in the photograph.
Lost.
Confused.
And terribly alone.
He typed on his phone.
I remember rain. My mother was driving. She was crying before the crash.
I sat beside him.
"What else?"
He closed his eyes.
A minute passed.
Then he typed.
She told me to keep my seat belt fastened. She said we were going somewhere safe.
Dr. Hart leaned forward.
"Vincent, memories after trauma can be fragmented. You don't have to force them. We should separate what you remember from what documents can establish."
He nodded.
Then he continued.
A vehicle hit us. I remember someone opening my mother's door.
His breathing quickened.
I touched his hand.
He looked at me.
I signed the word I'd practiced the previous night.
Safe.
Vincent stared at my fingers.
Then his expression softened.
He squeezed my hand.
Dr. Hart arranged an appointment with an otologist and audiology team. She also recommended that any investigation into the crash be handled by professionals rather than through a confrontation with Lorenzo.
Vincent agreed.
But I could see the storm building behind his eyes.
On the drive home, he typed a message and held it toward me.
I'm afraid of what I'll remember.
I looked at him.
"Then you don't have to face it alone."
He stared at my lips.
I repeated the words more slowly.
His thumb brushed my knuckles.
For the first time, I wondered what it would feel like to be loved by a man who had spent half his life being told he was broken.
Then I caught myself.
Loved?
We had been married eleven days.
A marriage arranged through debt and deception.
I barely knew him.
Yet he was the only person who had ever asked whether I'd eaten dinner.
The only person who had given me a bedroom key instead of locking a door.
The only person who looked at me as though my opinions mattered.
I didn't know what love was supposed to feel like.
But something inside me had begun changing.
When we returned to the mansion, Gabriel Russo was waiting.
His expression was grim.
"Boss, there's been another development."
Vincent watched his lips.
Gabriel turned his phone toward him.
A newspaper article filled the screen.
CHICAGO BUSINESSMAN CARLO MORETTI: THE ACCIDENT THAT CLAIMED HIS SISTER-IN-LAW.
The article was fifteen years old.
It described the fatal car crash involving Vincent's mother, Isabella Moretti.
But halfway through, I noticed something strange.
The article stated that Isabella had been planning to leave Chicago permanently.
She had purchased property in Vermont.
Transferred money into a private trust.
And removed several important documents from the Moretti family estate.
"She was running away," I whispered.
Vincent looked at me.
I pointed to the article.
"Your mother wasn't taking you on a trip. She was leaving."
His face hardened.
Gabriel opened another file.
"There's more."
The property records showed that Isabella had established a trust for Vincent.
It included real estate, investments, and controlling interests in several legitimate family businesses.
If Isabella died, the assets were supposed to be held for Vincent until adulthood.
But Carlo had become the trustee.
And for years, Carlo controlled everything.
Vincent typed quickly.
How much?
Gabriel hesitated.
"More than a hundred million dollars at the time."
I stared at him.
One hundred million.
I remembered my father accepting fifty dollars.
I remembered Tyler laughing.
And suddenly, the contrast was almost unbearable.
Men had spent years fighting over fortunes while treating people like possessions.
Gabriel continued.
"Carlo wasn't just Vincent's guardian. He controlled his medical decisions, access to money, and legal affairs while Vincent was a minor."
Vincent's face darkened.
"After Carlo died," Gabriel said, "some of his private holdings passed to Lorenzo."
I looked up sharply.
"Lorenzo inherited the uncle's assets?"
Gabriel nodded.
"And Carlo's old attorney handled the transfer."
A terrible possibility emerged.
If Carlo had manipulated Vincent's medical care to maintain control of his money, Lorenzo might have inherited more than a fortune.
He might have inherited the scheme.
Vincent stood abruptly.
He walked toward the fireplace.
Then stopped.
His hand went to his right ear.
I rushed toward him.
"Vincent?"
He shook his head.
No pain this time.
Instead, he opened his phone.
Why do I always feel worse near fireplaces?
I stared at him.
The mansion had seven fireplaces.
But Vincent had experienced his worst attacks in the dining room, his private study, and the west sitting room.
All three contained fireplaces.
I suddenly remembered something.
The black object had blinked when it lay inside the porcelain bowl.
Something had been communicating with it.
"What if the device wasn't working alone?" I whispered.
Gabriel frowned.
"What do you mean?"
I looked around the room.
"What if something inside the mansion was communicating with it?"
Gabriel's face changed.
He immediately ordered a professional security inspection of the house, preserving any suspicious equipment for investigators.
Two hours later, technicians discovered an unauthorized communications unit concealed behind decorative stonework near the study fireplace.
A second unit was found in the dining room.
The devices were connected to the mansion's security network.
Gabriel stared at the technician's report.
"Someone installed these during the renovations."
Vincent typed.
Who authorized the renovations?
Gabriel looked at him.
Then at me.
His expression told us the answer before he spoke.
"Lorenzo."
That night, after the devices had been documented and secured, Vincent led me to the small chapel at the back of the property.
A portrait of Isabella Moretti hung above the altar.
She was beautiful.
Dark-haired.
Gray-eyed.
And smiling with the same quiet sadness I sometimes saw in Vincent.
He stood beneath the portrait for a long time.
Then he typed.
I thought she died because I distracted her while she was driving.
My heart broke.
"Who told you that?"
Carlo.
I covered my mouth.
Vincent continued.
He said I screamed when I saw another car. He said she turned to look at me and lost control.
I stepped closer.
"Vincent, you were twelve."
His eyes filled.
I took his phone.
You were a child. You did not kill your mother.
He read the words.
Then slowly lowered his head.
For the first time since I'd met him, Vincent Moretti cried.
I wrapped my arms around him.
He held me so tightly that I could feel his heartbeat through his shirt.
And beneath the portrait of the woman he'd spent fifteen years mourning, he silently formed three words against my hair.
I miss her.
I held him until the tears stopped.
Then Gabriel appeared at the chapel doors.
His face was pale.
"Boss, the inspection team found something inside the fireplace unit."
Vincent turned.
Gabriel swallowed.
"A memory card. It contains recordings."
"What recordings?" I asked.
May you like
Gabriel looked toward Isabella's portrait.
"Someone recorded the meetings where they discussed keeping Vincent under control."
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