Chapter 4 - The Secret Behind the Moretti Name
Isabella arrived at Vincent's casino wearing a white designer dress and the expression of a woman expecting an apology.
She carried a small handbag and a tissue.
Vincent had seen that tissue many times.
Every time she wanted sympathy.
Every time she needed something.
"Vincent," she began, "I've been so worried about you."
He remained behind his desk.
"Sit down."
She hesitated.
"Why are you being so cold?"
"Because I have questions."
Isabella forced a smile.
"About Claire?"
"About you."
He placed a security photograph on the desk.
Her smile vanished.
"Why were you in my office?"
She glanced at the image.
"I was looking for some business papers."
"At three forty-one in the morning?"
"Vincent, you told me I could always come to you if I needed help."
"That doesn't explain why you opened a locked cabinet."
She crossed her arms.
"I don't appreciate being interrogated."
Vincent leaned forward.
"My wife nearly died yesterday. She lost our child. She's disappeared. And you were stealing documents from my office."
Isabella's face reddened.
"Stealing? After everything I've done for you?"
"What exactly have you done for me?"
Her eyes widened.
"I've stood by you when nobody else understood you."
"No," Vincent said. "You made sure I was never alone long enough to notice my wife was lonely."
For a moment, Isabella looked genuinely shocked.
Then her expression hardened.
"Claire always knew how to make you feel guilty."
Vincent stood.
"Get out."
"Vincent—"
"Get out before I have security escort you."
Isabella grabbed her handbag.
"You'll regret treating me like this."
She walked toward the door.
Then stopped.
"Claire isn't as innocent as you think."
Vincent's eyes narrowed.
"What does that mean?"
Isabella smiled.
"Ask your father."
The door slammed behind her.
Vincent immediately called Marco.
"Bring my father to the penthouse. Now."
Lorenzo Moretti had retired from daily casino operations five years earlier, but nobody in Las Vegas believed he'd surrendered his influence.
He lived in a desert estate surrounded by armed guards, antique paintings, and secrets.
When he entered Vincent's penthouse, he looked annoyed rather than concerned.
"This better be important."
Vincent placed the Bennett folder on the table.
Lorenzo stopped walking.
For one second, something resembling fear crossed his face.
"Where did you get that?"
"It was in my office."
"Destroy it."
Vincent stared.
"Why?"
"Because there are things better left buried."
"My wife's father died in an accident six years ago. What does that have to do with our company?"
Lorenzo poured himself a drink.
"Robert Bennett was investigating irregularities at the casino. He misunderstood several transactions."
"And?"
"He threatened to make those allegations public."
Vincent remembered the months before Robert's death.
His father had complained constantly about investigators.
He'd called Robert Bennett a self-righteous fool.
But Vincent had been thirty, consumed by opening a new property, and convinced his father could handle the business.
"What happened to him?" Vincent asked.
Lorenzo's expression turned cold.
"He drove too fast on a dangerous road."
Vincent took out the accident photograph Marco had recovered from the folder.
"The other vehicle belonged to Moretti Holdings."
Lorenzo went pale.
"Where did you find that?"
"Answer me."
His father looked toward the windows.
After a long silence, he said, "I told one of our men to follow Bennett. That's all."
"Who?"
"Vincent—"
"WHO?"
"Anthony Russo."
Vincent knew the name.
Anthony Russo had once managed security for the Moretti family.
He'd vanished shortly after the accident.
"Where is he?"
"I don't know."
Vincent didn't believe him.
Then Lorenzo said something that made the room spin.
"Your wife was never supposed to marry into this family."
Vincent stared at him.
"What?"
"Robert Bennett found records that could have sent half our executives to prison. Claire had access to his files. I warned you to stay away from her."
"I married her because I loved her."
Lorenzo laughed without humor.
"Then you should have protected her better."
Vincent stepped toward his father.
"Did you kill him?"
"No."
"Did you order someone to hurt him?"
Lorenzo said nothing.
Vincent's voice dropped.
"If you had anything to do with that man's death, I will turn over everything I find."
His father set down his glass.
"You think you're the first Moretti to fall in love with the wrong woman?"
Vincent's expression changed.
"What are you talking about?"
Lorenzo reached into his coat.
He removed an old photograph.
Two young people stood outside a small wedding chapel.
One was Robert Bennett.
The other was Vincent's mother, Elena Moretti.
Vincent stared at the picture.
His mother had died when he was twelve.
"What is this?"
Lorenzo's hands shook slightly.
"Before she married me, your mother was engaged to Robert Bennett."
Vincent looked up.
"And that's not the worst part."
May you like
Lorenzo swallowed.
"Claire's father discovered something about your birth. Something I spent thirty years hiding."
