Chapter 2 - THE WOMAN WHO KNEW TOO MUCHVincent received the photographs at midnight.
He spread them across the study floor.
Hospital photographs.
Family vacations.
Birthday parties.
Sophia at three.
Sophia at four.
Sophia on her final birthday.
He stared at each picture.
The birthmark was there.
Behind her ear.
Tiny.
V-shaped.
Daniel stood nearby.
“Anything?”
Vincent shook his head.
“Look.”
He handed Daniel one photograph.
Daniel studied it.
“Same shape.”
“Yes.”
“But the location is different.”
“Exactly.”
Vincent sat down.
“Run the DNA.”
Daniel looked surprised.
“From whom?”
“Mia.”
“And Sophia?”
“Whatever samples remain.”
“Boss…”
“Do it.”
Daniel left.
Vincent stared at Sophia's final photograph.
She was smiling.
A pink ribbon in her hair.
One front tooth missing.
His favorite picture.
He had taken it two days before she died.
His eyes burned.
For five years he had told himself that grief had made him irrational.
Tonight, grief was beginning to sound like instinct.
The next morning, Elena was summoned.
She entered Vincent's study alone.
“Mia?”
“Asleep.”
“Good.”
Elena stood silently.
Vincent held up the photograph.
“Why does your daughter have a birthmark similar to my daughter's?”
“I don't know.”
“Wrong answer.”
Elena's face tightened.
“You've asked that before.”
“And you lied.”
“No.”
“You knew something about Sophia.”
“I knew what everyone knew.”
“Then why were you afraid when Marco saw Mia?”
Elena looked down.
“He scared me.”
“Why?”
“He looked at my daughter like she was evidence.”
That answer surprised him.
Vincent leaned back.
“Are you hiding something?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because five years ago I learned that telling the truth can get people killed.”
Vincent's eyes narrowed.
“Who?”
Elena looked at him.
“People I loved.”
Silence.
“Who is Mia's father?”
Elena's face became pale.
“I can't tell you.”
Vincent stood.
“That isn't your choice anymore.”
“Yes, it is.”
She raised her chin.
“You may own half the city, Mr. Moretti. You don't own my daughter.”
Something about the statement almost pleased him.
“You're afraid of me.”
“Yes.”
“But you're still arguing.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because fear doesn't erase courage.”
Vincent stared at her.
Then, unexpectedly, he smiled.
“That's true.”
He sat down.
“Tell me about Mia's father.”
Elena closed her eyes.
“He's dead.”
Vincent waited.
“When?”
“Before she was born.”
“How?”
“Car accident.”
“Name?”
Elena's lips trembled.
“Daniel.”
Vincent's heart stopped.
His younger brother's name.
Daniel Moretti.
But his brother had died six years earlier.
Before Sophia.
Before everything.
No.
Not possible.
He stood.
“Your daughter's father was named Daniel?”
Elena nodded.
Vincent's voice became very quiet.
“My brother Daniel?”
She couldn't answer.
He understood anyway.
The DNA results arrived that afternoon.
Vincent opened the envelope himself.
Daniel Cole watched.
The test showed no biological relation between Mia and Vincent.
No relation.
Vincent almost laughed.
He turned to Daniel.
“See?”
Daniel frowned.
“The test is conclusive.”
Vincent stared at the papers.
Then he saw another line.
SAMPLE QUALITY INSUFFICIENT FOR ABSOLUTE CONFIRMATION.
His expression changed.
“Insufficient?”
“The sample was from an old hairbrush.”
“Then it's not conclusive.”
“No.”
Vincent crumpled the paper.
“Do it again.”
That night, Vincent visited the guest wing.
Mia was awake.
She sat on the floor drawing.
Vincent stopped at the doorway.
“What are you drawing?”
“A house.”
“Whose house?”
“Mommy's.”
“Where's your daddy?”
Mia pointed toward the top corner.
“A star.”
Vincent's chest tightened.
“Did you know him?”
Mia nodded.
“He used to sing.”
“What song?”
She hummed.
A lullaby.
Vincent's face changed.
He knew that melody.
Daniel used to sing it when they were children.
Only the Moretti family knew it.
Vincent crouched.
“Who taught you that?”
“My daddy.”
He looked at Elena.
She had gone pale.
Vincent stood.
“How did he know that song?”
Elena looked at Mia.
Then at Vincent.
“Because he was Daniel.”
The room went silent.
Vincent could barely breathe.
“Daniel Moretti?”
She nodded.
“But Daniel died six years ago.”
May you like
Elena's eyes filled.
“He didn't.”
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