Chapter 3 - The Ashes She Tried to Take
I woke in the Moretti medical suite.
That alone made me angry.
The family kept three private rooms on the eastern side of the estate for situations involving people who could not safely appear in public hospitals.
Gunshots.
Overdoses.
Political scandals.
Now brain cancer.
I opened my eyes and found Vincent sitting beside the bed.
He had changed clothes.
Black shirt.
No jacket.
No tie.
His hands were clasped between his knees.
For the first time since I had known him, he looked uncertain what to do with them.
I turned my face away.
“Elena.”
“Go away.”
“No.”
“Then I’ll leave.”
I pushed myself upright.
The room immediately spun.
Vincent stood.
“Don’t.”
“Don’t touch me.”
He stopped.
A doctor entered.
Not my neurologist.
This one was a Moretti specialist I recognized from charity dinners.
Dr. Samuel Arnett.
He closed the door.
“Mrs. Moretti—”
“Ms. Russo.”
That had been my maiden name.
The divorce was not yet final in court, but I needed to hear it.
Dr. Arnett glanced at Vincent.
Then corrected himself.
“Ms. Russo.”
“Give me my clothes.”
“I need to discuss your imaging.”
“No.”
“Elena,” Vincent said.
I looked at him.
“You do not get to become involved because I fainted dramatically enough to interrupt your evening.”
His expression tightened.
“You have a brain tumor.”
“And?”
“And you didn’t tell me.”
“You were in Iceland.”
“That was three weeks ago.”
“I was diagnosed before that.”
He stared.
The truth hit harder.
“You knew before I left?”
“Yes.”
His voice lowered.
“And you said nothing.”
“I tried.”
That was not completely true.
I had almost tried.
Twice.
The first time Sofia called because she had been followed leaving a club.
Vincent left dinner.
The second, Sofia announced the Iceland trip and Vincent spent three days arranging security.
Eventually, I decided if I had to compete with Sofia simply to tell my husband I was dying, then he did not deserve to know.
“I should have been there,” he said.
“For what?”
“For you.”
“No.”
I shook my head.
“You should have been there for Noah.”
His face changed.
Dr. Arnett quietly moved toward the door.
Vincent stopped him.
“No. Stay.”
The doctor hesitated.
Vincent looked at me.
“I want another opinion.”
“I don’t.”
“I do.”
“It’s my body.”
“I know.”
“Apparently not.”
Vincent flinched.
I continued.
“I spent seven days kneeling because your family believed my body belonged to them. I gave birth to the Moretti heir. I hosted your dinners. I smiled beside you. I did everything I was supposed to.”
My voice sharpened.
“My body is the one thing I have left that belongs to me.”
Vincent sat back down.
His hands opened.
“You’re right.”
I did not expect that.
He looked at Dr. Arnett.
“She decides.”
The doctor nodded.
Vincent turned to me.
“But I am asking you to let him look.”
“Why?”
“Because one doctor said one month.”
“Three doctors.”
“Then let there be four.”
I laughed bitterly.
“You think money buys different biology?”
“No.”
His eyes held mine.
“But money buys access.”
That, unfortunately, was true.
Dr. Arnett reviewed the scans.
He did not offer false hope.
The tumor was large.
Aggressive.
Located dangerously near structures controlling speech and movement.
But he said something my previous specialists had not.
“Your prognosis without intervention may indeed be extremely short.”
Vincent’s jaw tightened.
“But there is a neurosurgeon in Boston who has operated on tumors in this region using awake mapping and intraoperative imaging.”
I stared.
“Cure?”
“No.”
Of course.
“But possibly meaningful extension. Depending on pathology and molecular markers, treatment after surgery could provide additional time.”
“How much?”
“We cannot promise.”
Vincent asked, “Months?”
“Possibly.”
“Years?”
“Possibly.”
I looked at the doctor.
“And paralysis?”
“Possible.”
“Loss of speech?”
“Yes.”
“Death during surgery?”
“Yes.”
Vincent looked at me.
I saw hope in his face.
I hated it.
Hope was expensive.
Especially when it arrived after I had already accepted death.
“I want to leave tomorrow,” I said.
Vincent stood.
“You heard him.”
“I did.”
“And?”
“And I want to leave.”
His expression hardened.
“You’re refusing because you’re angry with me.”
“I’m refusing because I am tired.”
“Elena.”
“I buried my child.”
My voice cracked.
“I don’t want to spend whatever is left being cut open because you suddenly remembered I matter.”
He became still.
“That isn’t fair.”
“No.”
I smiled without humor.
“Neither was seven days on my knees.”
I left the medical suite that evening.
Vincent did not stop me.
He did something more dangerous.
He began helping.
My suitcase appeared beside the front entrance.
A car waited.
No Moretti driver.
A hired service.
The wooden box containing Noah’s ashes rested on the seat.
I stared at it.
Vincent stood several feet away.
Rain fell beyond the porte-cochère.
“You packed the car?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
“Finn.”
I looked toward him.
Vincent’s mouth tightened.
“You said you wanted choice.”
“Yes.”
“I am trying.”
That hurt.
I wanted him cruel.
Cruelty would have been easier.
“I’m going to Maine.”
He nodded.
“Where?”
“I won’t tell you.”
His jaw tightened.
But he said, “All right.”
I looked at the two security vehicles parked farther down the drive.
“No.”
“They are not coming with you.”
“Then why are they there?”
“Because Finn is taking me somewhere.”
I frowned.
“Where?”
Vincent looked toward the house.
“South gate.”
My body went cold.
He had not forgotten.
Finn’s evidence.
The deleted footage.
The override code.
Vincent stepped closer.
“If someone helped Noah leave the estate, I’m going to find out.”
“You think Sofia—”
“I don’t know what I think.”
That answer was new.
Vincent had always known.
Who was guilty.
Who was loyal.
Who deserved punishment.
Now uncertainty seemed to frighten him.
“I’ll call you when I know something.”
“No.”
His eyes met mine.
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want your calls.”
Pain crossed his face.
Small.
Real.
“Elena.”
“I mean it.”
He nodded once.
“Then Finn will contact you if it affects Noah.”
I opened the car door.
Vincent said my name again.
I turned.
He reached into his coat.
For one insane second, I thought he might hand me money.
Instead, he gave me Noah’s blue baseball cap.
I had thought it was lost.
My breath stopped.
“Where?”
“His room.”
Vincent looked down.
“Under the chair.”
I took it.
The fabric still smelled faintly like the lavender detergent used by our household staff.
My hands began shaking.
“He wore that to the Yankees game.”
“I know.”
“He fell asleep in the seventh inning.”
“I carried him to the car.”
I closed my eyes.
The memory appeared.
Noah on Vincent’s shoulder.
One tiny hand tangled in his father’s collar.
Vincent smiling in a way he never smiled for cameras.
I opened my eyes.
“You loved him.”
It came out almost accusatory.
Vincent looked destroyed.
“Yes.”
“Then why wasn’t that enough?”
He had no answer.
I got into the car.
For the first time since I married Vincent Moretti, I left his estate without asking when he would come home.
I chose a small coastal town in Maine called Bellhaven.
No one there cared who Vincent Moretti was.
At least most people pretended not to.
I rented a cottage facing a gray-blue inlet surrounded by pine trees.
It had two bedrooms.
A stone fireplace.
A porch.
The landlord apologized because the kitchen appliances were old.
I nearly cried.
It felt ordinary.
Ordinary had become luxurious.
I placed Noah’s wooden box on the mantel.
His stuffed lion beside it.
For three days, I did nothing.
I slept.
Walked to the water.
Ate toast when I remembered.
Watched gulls.
On the fourth day, someone knocked.
I froze.
Vincent.
It had to be.
I opened the door prepared to slam it.
Finn stood there.
Alone.
“What happened?”
His expression answered before he spoke.
“We recovered part of the deleted security footage.”
My heart began pounding.
“Come in.”
Finn entered.
He placed a tablet on the kitchen table.
“Vincent doesn’t know I came.”
“Why?”
“Because you told him not to contact you.”
“So he ordered you to?”
“No.”
Finn looked uncomfortable.
“I decided.”
That frightened me.
He played the footage.
Timestamp.
11:39 a.m.
The south corridor.
Noah appeared wearing his little backpack.
My hand flew to my mouth.
He walked toward the service gate.
At 11:41, he stopped.
Someone stood on the other side.
The camera angle showed only part of the figure.
Tall.
Male.
Dark coat.
Noah waved.
My heart stopped.
The gate opened.
Noah walked through.
He had not simply wandered out.
Someone had been waiting.
“Who is that?”
“We don’t know.”
Finn paused the video.
A silver signet ring was visible on the man’s hand.
My blood turned cold.
I knew that ring.
Every senior man in the Moretti organization received one after twenty years.
Vincent’s father had designed them.
Finn zoomed.
The emblem was partially visible.
“M.”
“Moretti?”
“Yes.”
“Then one of yours took him.”
Finn’s face hardened.
“Possibly.”
“What happened next?”
“The next camera was disabled.”
“And Noah was found thirty-seven minutes later?”
“Yes.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
Finn looked away.
“What?”
“The groundskeeper originally told security Noah said he had been looking for his father.”
“I know.”
“He said something else.”
My pulse hammered.
“What?”
“He said, ‘The man said Daddy sent him.’”
I stopped breathing.
“No.”
“The groundskeeper changed his statement after Evelyn spoke to him.”
I stood so quickly the chair fell backward.
“Evelyn knew?”
“We don’t know what she knew.”
“She changed a witness statement.”
“Yes.”
I paced.
Pain pulsed behind my eyes.
“Why?”
Finn looked at me.
“There is one possibility.”
“What?”
“She recognized the man.”
Silence.
I stared at Noah’s ashes.
Someone wearing a Moretti ring had opened the gate.
Someone had told my son his father sent him.
Then my injured child had been returned to the estate.
And Evelyn had hidden part of what he said.
“This was not Sofia,” I whispered.
“Probably not physically.”
“She was in Iceland.”
“Yes.”
“Then who?”
Finn’s phone rang.
He looked at it.
His face changed.
“Vincent.”
“Don’t tell him where I am.”
Finn answered.
“Boss.”
Vincent’s voice was loud enough that I heard pieces.
Where are you?
Finn looked at me.
“Following a lead.”
Pause.
His expression changed.
“What?”
He listened.
Then looked directly at me.
I knew.
Something else had happened.
Finn ended the call.
“What?”
He did not answer immediately.
“Finn.”
“The groundskeeper is dead.”
Cold spread through the kitchen.
“When?”
“Twenty minutes ago.”
“How?”
“Car explosion.”
I stared.
A witness connected to Noah.
Dead.
Finn reached for his coat.
“You need to leave.”
“I just got here.”
“You are not safe.”
“Why?”
“Because whoever is cleaning this up may know we recovered the footage.”
“No one knows I’m here.”
Finn looked toward the window.
A black SUV slowly passed the cottage.
Not a local vehicle.
Tinted windows.
New York plates.
Finn moved instantly.
“Back room.”
My heart hammered.
“Vincent?”
“No.”
He pulled a gun.
The SUV stopped.
Doors opened.
Three men stepped out.
Finn locked the front door.
“Call 911.”
I reached for my phone.
Then someone outside shouted.
“Mrs. Moretti.”
Finn’s expression changed.
They knew.
“Stay down.”
A gunshot shattered the living-room window.
Noah’s wooden box fell from the mantel.
I screamed.
Ashes scattered across the floor.
Something inside me broke.
I dropped to my knees.
“NOAH!”
Finn grabbed my arm.
“We have to move!”
His ashes.
Gray dust across old wooden boards.
Pieces of my son.
My baby.
Another shot hit the wall.
Finn pulled me toward the back door.
I fought him.
“No!”
“Elena!”
“Noah!”
I crawled toward the box.
Finn swore.
Then he did something reckless.
He ran back beneath gunfire and grabbed it.
Most of the ashes were still inside.
He shoved the lid closed and pulled me outside.
We reached the woods as engines roared behind us.
Finn’s phone buzzed.
A message.
He looked down.
Then stopped.
“What?”
He showed me.
A photograph.
Vincent.
Standing at the south gate.
Underneath, one sentence.
STOP LOOKING INTO THE BOY OR HIS MOTHER DIES NEXT.
Finn looked at me.
I looked at Noah’s damaged box in his hands.
And for the first time since my diagnosis, I wanted desperately to live.
Not because I feared death.
May you like
Because someone had murdered my son.
And I intended to know who before I joined him.
