Chapter 2 - The Mafia Boss Took the Girl HomeVincent Moretti did not make promises lightly.
Charlotte learned that before she even reached the car.
The funeral home was surrounded by men.
Black suits.
Black vehicles.
Black umbrellas.
Nobody spoke loudly.
Nobody asked questions.
The entire machine operated around Vincent's presence.
Charlotte sat in the back seat beside a bodyguard named Marco.
Vincent sat in front.
She watched him through the reflection in the window.
He didn't look like a monster.
That was almost more frightening.
Monsters were supposed to look monstrous.
Vincent looked tired.
Older than thirty-nine.
The lines around his eyes were deeper than they had been in newspaper photographs.
He held Dominic's recorder in one hand.
Charlotte had finally given it to him.
Not because she trusted him completely.
Because Dominic's message had been clear.
Vincent needed to hear it.
The car turned onto a gated private road.
Charlotte stared.
“Where are we?”
“Home.”
“Yours?”
“Yes.”
The gates opened.
The Moretti estate sat behind them.
Stone walls.
Tall trees.
Security cameras.
A fountain frozen in winter.
Charlotte stepped inside.
She felt like she had wandered into another country.
A woman in a gray uniform approached.
“Boss.”
“Take Charlotte upstairs.”
Charlotte stiffened.
Vincent noticed.
“She stays where she wants.”
The woman nodded.
“There are three guest rooms.”
“Which one is safest?”
The woman hesitated.
Vincent answered.
“The one across from my office.”
Charlotte looked at him.
“Why?”
“Because nobody enters that hallway without my permission.”
He looked toward the guard.
“Not even family.”
That word seemed strange.
Charlotte had never seen anyone treat a hallway like a border.
Then she saw photographs.
Families smiling.
Children.
Weddings.
Graduations.
Dominic appeared in almost every picture.
Vincent was younger in them.
Laughing.
Arm around Dominic.
Another man appeared beside them.
Older.
Cold-eyed.
Charlotte stopped.
“Who is that?”
Vincent's expression changed.
“My father.”
“What happened to him?”
“Dead.”
“Was he bad?”
Vincent took a long breath.
“Yes.”
Charlotte looked at Dominic's photograph.
“Was Dominic good?”
Vincent almost smiled.
“Most of the time.”
“What about my mother?”
Vincent turned.
“What about her?”
“Was she good?”
He looked directly at Charlotte.
“I don't know.”
That answer made Charlotte nervous.
Later that night, she refused the dinner prepared for her.
She sat at the table without eating.
Vincent sat across from her.
“You need food.”
“I don't know you.”
“You don't have to.”
“Then why should I eat?”
“Because you're hungry.”
Charlotte looked down.
Her stomach betrayed her.
Vincent called the kitchen.
“Bring something simple.”
Twenty minutes later, tomato soup and bread appeared.
Charlotte ate slowly.
Vincent didn't stare.
That made her trust him a little.
After dinner, she asked:
“Did Dominic know my mother?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I don't know.”
Charlotte frowned.
“You're the boss.”
“Not of everything.”
She considered this.
Then asked:
“Why are people afraid of you?”
Vincent looked at her.
“Because I give them reasons.”
“Do you hurt people?”
“Yes.”
Charlotte swallowed.
“At least you tell the truth.”
“I've learned that lying to children is worse than lying to adults.”
She looked away.
The next morning, Charlotte woke to shouting.
She opened her door.
Two men were arguing downstairs.
One voice was loud.
The other was Vincent.
“You lost him.”
“I didn't lose him.”
“Then explain why Edward Vale walked out of my funeral carrying a file he never had permission to touch.”
Charlotte froze.
Vale.
The man from the funeral.
She moved down the stairs.
Vincent saw her.
His voice changed instantly.
“Go back upstairs.”
Charlotte shook her head.
“I know him.”
Everyone went silent.
Vincent walked toward her.
“What do you know?”
“He came to my apartment.”
“When?”
“Before my mother sent me away.”
“What did he do?”
“He asked for the recorder.”
Vincent looked at his men.
“Did he hurt your mother?”
“I don't know.”
“What did he say?”
Charlotte thought.
“He said…”
She closed her eyes.
“He said the girl must never reach the Morettis.”
Vincent went still.
“What girl?”
Charlotte touched her chest.
“He said 'the girl.'”
Vincent called Marco.
“Find everything Edward Vale has touched in the last ten years.”
“Yes, boss.”
“And find Charlotte's birth records.”
Charlotte frowned.
“Why?”
Vincent looked at her.
“Because there is something impossible about your bracelet.”
“What?”
“It was issued twelve years ago.”
She stared.
“I was eleven months old.”
“Exactly.”
Later that afternoon, the records arrived.
Charlotte Hayes.
Born twelve years earlier.
Mother: Elena Hayes.
Father: Daniel Hayes.
Hospital: St. Matthew's Medical Center.
But when Vincent cross-checked the hospital records, something was missing.
There was no birth.
No admission.
No infant discharge.
No death certificate.
Charlotte technically did not exist.
She had been born somewhere else.
Someone had created a false identity.
Her mother had disappeared from every database seven years ago.
Daniel Hayes had disappeared the same year.
Vincent stared at the screen.
“Find Daniel.”
A guard hesitated.
“Boss…”
“Now.”
Hours passed.
The answer came late that night.
Daniel Hayes was dead.
Officially.
Buried in an empty grave.
No body.
Vincent leaned back.
“Of course.”
Charlotte looked at him.
“What?”
“Your parents were hiding you.”
“From whom?”
He looked toward the recorder.
“That's what Dominic was trying to tell me.”
The recorder still hadn't played again.
Then suddenly, without warning, the cracked speaker came to life.
Dominic's voice whispered:
“Vincent, if Charlotte reaches you, don't trust blood.”
The recording distorted.
“Not your blood.”
Static.
“Your own.”
Then silence.
Vincent stood.
Charlotte stared.
“What's that supposed to mean?”
Vincent looked at the family photographs.
Then at the photograph of his father.
Then at the photograph of Dominic.
May you like
Finally, at Charlotte.
“It means someone in my family knows why you exist.”
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