Chapter 9 - THE BOY WHO HAD NO NAME
The old Moretti estate sat outside Greenwich behind twelve-foot stone walls.
Beatrice had never been there.
Neither had Maggie.
Dante's security team searched the property before they arrived.
No employees.
No obvious residents.
No sign that anyone had been inside recently.
But the house itself looked strangely preserved.
Furniture covered with white sheets.
Dust on the floors.
A library filled with old books.
And photographs.
Beatrice stopped in front of one.
Lorenzo Moretti stood beside Patrick Gallagher.
Her father.
Both men looked younger.
Both were smiling.
Between them was a wooden crib.
Beatrice felt a chill.
“That's him.”
Dante turned.
“Who?”
“My father.”
The photograph was dated twelve days after Beatrice's birth.
She stared at the crib.
“Why would my father bring me here?”
Dante looked at the photograph.
“He may not have.”
A second picture lay beneath it.
This one showed a baby.
A boy.
Wrapped in a white blanket.
A small bracelet around his wrist.
The name had been crossed out.
Beatrice lifted the photograph.
Her hands began trembling.
The baby's eyes were closed.
But the face was unmistakably related to hers.
“I need a DNA test.”
Dante nodded.
“We'll do one.”
“No.”
She looked at him.
“I need an answer now.”
Dante called the laboratory.
They arranged an emergency comparison.
While they waited, Beatrice searched the house.
One room contained medical records.
Another held old financial documents.
Then she found a small bedroom upstairs.
A child's bedroom.
Not decorated.
Not used.
But maintained.
A bed.
A desk.
Books.
An old soccer ball.
Maggie stood beside her.
“Someone lived here.”
“For how long?”
“I don't know.”
Beatrice opened the desk drawer.
Inside was a stack of school reports.
The student's name:
NATHAN MORETTI.
She stared.
Dante entered behind them.
“What's wrong?”
She handed him the papers.
His face changed.
“Nathan.”
“You know him?”
“No.”
“Then why do you look like that?”
Dante looked toward the window.
“Because my father had a son he never told anyone about.”
Beatrice froze.
“Another son?”
“He had Marco.”
He paused.
“Then me.”
“And Nathan?”
“I've never heard the name.”
Maggie whispered:
“Maybe he wasn't a Moretti.”
Beatrice looked again at the school documents.
The surname had been written in the same ink as the old medical records.
Someone had changed it later.
A photograph sat beneath the reports.
Nathan at sixteen.
Older.
Taller.
The resemblance was undeniable.
Beatrice looked at Dante.
“He's my brother.”
Dante said nothing.
A phone rang downstairs.
Luca answered.
Then his voice echoed through the house.
“Dante!”
They rushed downstairs.
Luca held a medical report.
“We got the DNA comparison.”
Beatrice stopped.
“What does it say?”
Luca handed the report to Dante.
He read it.
Then looked at Beatrice.
“It's a match.”
She closed her eyes.
Her brother had survived.
For thirty-two years.
He had lived under another family's name.
And he had been hidden inside a property belonging to Dante's family.
But one question remained.
“Where is he now?”
Luca looked uncomfortable.
“We found him.”
“Where?”
“Twenty miles away.”
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
“Then why isn't he here?”
Luca lowered his voice.
“Because he doesn't want to meet you.”
Beatrice stared.
“Why?”
“He says he was told you abandoned him.”
Her heart shattered.
“Who told him?”
Luca looked toward Dante.
“The person who has been contacting him for years.”
Dante's face darkened.
“Who?”
Luca handed him a second document.
A payment history.
Monthly transfers.
Food.
Housing.
Medical expenses.
Education.
All paid anonymously.
For years.
But the account owner was not anonymous.
It belonged to—
Arthur Wilkes.
Beatrice felt sick.
Arthur had been dead?
No.
He was alive in custody.
Then the payments had continued after his arrest.
Someone else had inherited the account.
The final payment was dated three weeks earlier.
The recipient was Nathan.
The sender:
Marianne Vale.
Beatrice stared.
“She isn't just manipulating the financial system.”
“No,” Dante said.
“She has been controlling my brother.”
Beatrice's phone vibrated.
A message.
Unknown number.
You wanted your brother.
Another message arrived.
Come alone.
Then an address.
A small church outside Manhattan.
Beatrice showed Dante.
“You're not going alone.”
“I have to.”
“No.”
“If they know you're involved, they'll move him.”
Dante studied her.
“You think they'll hurt Nathan?”
“I think they've already spent thirty-two years convincing him that his family abandoned him.”
She stepped closer.
“I need him to hear the truth from me.”
Dante nodded.
“Then I'm coming.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because this is my family.”
Dante's eyes softened.
“Then stop trying to carry it alone.”
For once, Beatrice had no answer.
They drove to the church.
Nathan was waiting.
He looked older than the photographs.
Thirty-two.
Dark hair.
Green eyes.
The same eyes as Beatrice.
He stared at her.
“You're Beatrice.”
She nodded.
“Yes.”
He laughed bitterly.
“I thought you would look different.”
“I didn't know you existed.”
“You're lying.”
“I swear.”
“Mom told me you were dead.”
Beatrice froze.
“Who?”
“The woman who raised me.”
“Marianne?”
Nathan's jaw tightened.
“Yes.”
Beatrice stepped closer.
“She lied to you.”
“She protected me.”
“She stole you.”
“No.”
“She did.”
Nathan backed away.
“You don't know anything.”
Beatrice pulled out the birth record.
Then the photograph.
Then the DNA report.
He stared.
His hands began shaking.
“I have a family.”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
She pointed toward herself.
“You have me.”
Nathan looked at her.
Then toward Dante.
“Who is he?”
“My friend.”
Dante nodded.
Nathan stared at Beatrice again.
“I don't know how to do this.”
“Neither do I.”
That was the only answer she could give.
But then another car stopped outside.
Nathan looked through the church window.
His face went white.
“She's here.”
May you like
“Who?”
“Marianne.”
