Chapter 7 - The Ghost of the Moretti Family
Vincent's father was alive.
He had been living under witness protection.
He had orchestrated the first attack.
Not because he hated me.
Because he believed my marriage to Vincent would destroy the Moretti family.
He had manipulated Vanessa.
He had used Marco.
He had secretly funded Adrian.
He wanted control restored.
When we found him, he looked older than Vincent remembered.
He sat in a small house outside the city.
Vincent stood in front of him.
“You were supposed to be dead.”
“I needed you to believe that.”
“You tried to kill my wife.”
“I wanted to remove an obstacle.”
Vincent's face became cold.
“I loved her.”
“I know.”
“You used Vanessa.”
“I used everyone.”
Vincent looked at him.
“Why?”
“Because power must belong to someone.”
“No.”
Vincent shook his head.
“That is what you taught me.”
His father stared.
“You became weak.”
“I became human.”
The words were quiet.
But they were final.
His father looked toward me.
“You changed him.”
I answered:
“He changed himself.”
Vincent looked at me.
That was the first time I realized our marriage might not survive.
Even after everything.
Even after he changed.
There were wounds between us that couldn't simply disappear.
We went home separately.
Weeks passed.
The divorce proceedings continued.
Vincent did not fight them.
He fought only for equal time with Noah.
That surprised me.
He could have used money.
Power.
Connections.
He didn't.
He followed the court order.
He arrived on time.
He left on time.
He never spoke badly about me in front of Noah.
And slowly, my anger began to change.
Not into forgiveness.
Not yet.
Into understanding.
Vincent was learning how to be a father without using fear.
I was learning how to be a mother without living in survival mode.
One afternoon, Noah drew a picture.
It showed three people holding hands.
Me.
Vincent.
Him.
He handed it to me.
“Family.”
I smiled.
“Yes.”
He looked at me.
“Daddy can come for dinner?”
I hesitated.
Then nodded.
“Yes.”
That was how it started.
One dinner.
Then another.
Vincent sat across the table.
No bodyguards.
No business calls.
No weapons.
Just food.
Noah talked for thirty minutes.
Vincent listened for all thirty.
After Noah went to bed, silence filled the kitchen.
“You look different,” Vincent said.
“So do you.”
He nodded.
“Daniel says the divorce can be finalized next month.”
“I know.”
“Do you want it?”
I looked at him.
“I'm not sure.”
His eyes lifted.
“You don't owe me an answer.”
“I know.”
I paused.
“But I need to ask something.”
“What?”
“Why did you never come after me the night I left?”
His face tightened.
“I thought you needed space.”
“That was a lie.”
“Yes.”
He took a breath.
“I was afraid.”
“Of what?”
“That if I went after you, you'd look at me and realize you didn't love me anymore.”
I stared.
“And what if I had?”
“Then I would have accepted it.”
That was the first honest thing he had said that didn't ask anything from me.
I nodded.
“Thank you.”
He reached across the table.
Stopped.
He didn't touch me.
That restraint mattered.
Then my phone rang.
Daniel.
“We have a problem.”
“What?”
“The final archive was copied.”
“By who?”
“Someone at your mother's facility.”
I stood.
“Is she safe?”
“Yes.”
“Then who?”
Daniel sent a photograph.
A nurse.
I recognized her.
She had been working there for months.
Behind her stood a man.
My father.
Alive.
I dropped the phone.
Vincent caught it.
He stared at the image.
“No.”
The man in the photograph was definitely my father.
The same face.
The same scar.
The same eyes.
The person I had spent fifteen years mourning was alive.
My mother had known.
And she had kept him from me.
Vincent looked at me.
“Claire.”
I couldn't hear anything.
May you like
My father had just returned from the dead.
And the archive was now in his hands.
