Chapter 14 - The Price of the Moretti Name
Before leaving for Sicily, Landon did one thing he had avoided his entire adult life.
He called a meeting of every senior executive in the Moretti organization.
No private backroom.
No selective invitations.
Every legal adviser.
Division president.
Board member.
Accountant.
Family representative.
Nearly forty people gathered in the Manhattan headquarters.
Some looked frightened.
Others irritated.
Rumors had already spread.
Federal investigations.
Frozen accounts.
Vale arrested.
Matteo cooperating.
Landon stood at the head of the table.
His father’s portrait hung behind him.
He looked at it once.
Then began.
“For decades, the Moretti name has meant different things to different people.”
Nobody moved.
“To some, business. To some, loyalty. To some, fear.”
A few older men exchanged glances.
“I inherited companies built by my father and grandfather.”
He paused.
“I also inherited their secrets.”
The room became colder.
“Those secrets end today.”
One executive cleared his throat.
“Landon, perhaps counsel should—”
“No.”
The man stopped.
Landon continued.
“Federal investigators will receive complete access to any company connected to Adrian Vale’s network.”
Whispers erupted.
“Our attorneys—”
“Will cooperate.”
“You’ll destroy us.”
Landon looked toward the speaker.
“Then we deserve to be destroyed.”
Silence.
A man named Carlo Vitale stood.
He had worked with Landon’s father for thirty years.
“You sound like Santino.”
Landon smiled faintly.
“I’m beginning to take that as a compliment.”
Carlo shook his head.
“Your father would never allow this.”
“My father is dead.”
“He built everything you have.”
“Yes.”
“And I intend to keep only what can survive daylight.”
That sentence ended the argument.
Some resigned within hours.
Others cooperated.
Several were arrested by week’s end.
Moretti stock values collapsed.
News organizations camped outside the headquarters.
Headlines described Landon as either whistleblower, criminal heir, opportunist, or traitor depending on the publication.
He ignored them.
Isabella worried.
“Leo will eventually read this.”
“Then he should read the truth.”
“What do we tell him?”
“That his father was brave.”
“And you?”
Landon considered.
“That I was late.”
Isabella smiled sadly.
“But you came.”
The night before Sicily, Landon visited Santino’s grave.
Or the grave that had carried his name.
The remains inside had been identified as Anthony Moretti, their missing uncle.
Cross’s investigators believed Anthony had also been involved in Vale’s network and may have been killed years earlier. His body had been preserved secretly, then used to stage Santino’s death.
One family tragedy hidden inside another.
Landon stood before the empty headstone.
SERAFINO “SANTINO” MORETTI.
Beloved husband.
Devoted father.
Cherished brother.
“Your grave is very dramatic,” Landon said.
The cemetery was silent.
He felt ridiculous talking to an empty coffin.
Then again, he had spent two years talking to it.
“I’m going to be angry if you’re alive.”
Wind moved through the trees.
“You let us bury someone else under your name.”
Still nothing.
“You made Isabella mourn you.”
His throat tightened.
“Leo stopped asking when you were coming home.”
He looked down.
“And I…”
Words failed.
He had spoken to presidents without notes.
Negotiated billion-dollar contracts.
Threatened dangerous men without raising his voice.
But talking honestly to his absent younger brother remained almost impossible.
“I missed you.”
There.
Simple.
True.
He left.
At the airport, Serena waited.
He stopped.
“You’re coming?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Santino is my friend.”
“Was.”
“Is.”
Hope again.
She picked up her bag.
“And somebody has to stop you from terrifying monks.”
Dominic appeared behind her.
“I volunteered, but apparently I look more frightening.”
“You do,” Serena said.
“Thank you.”
They flew overnight.
Upon arrival, they drove into Sicily’s mountains.
The landscape changed from coast to forests and stone villages.
The retreat appeared near sunset.
A small monastery built against a hillside.
No security.
No dramatic gates.
An old priest met them.
“Mr. Moretti?”
Landon’s heart raced.
“Yes.”
The priest looked at Serena.
Recognition crossed his face.
“Signorina Bellandi.”
“You know me?”
“Only from photographs.”
Landon stepped closer.
“Is he here?”
The priest studied him.
“Your brother told us you might come.”
“When?”
“Many times.”
“Is he here?”
The priest did not answer immediately.
Instead:
“He was.”
Landon felt the world tilt.
“Was?”
“He left nine months ago.”
“Where?”
“We don’t know.”
Anger rose.
“Someone knows.”
“He asked us not to tell.”
“I am done with my brother’s secrets.”
The priest smiled gently.
“So was he.”
Landon stopped.
“What does that mean?”
“Come.”
They entered a small office.
The priest opened a cabinet.
Inside were letters.
Dozens.
Every envelope addressed to Landon.
“You had these?”
“Your brother wrote them during his recovery.”
“Why didn’t he send them?”
“He changed his mind.”
“Why?”
“He feared any contact would expose his location.”
Serena touched one envelope.
“He was here.”
“Yes.”
“His injuries?”
“Serious.”
“What happened after seven weeks at the first monastery?”
“He came here.”
“For how long?”
“Almost a year.”
“And then?”
“He left.”
“Alone?”
The priest hesitated.
“With a physician.”
“Name?”
“Dr. Emilia Costa.”
Dominic searched.
Nothing immediately.
“Where were they going?”
“Northern Italy.”
“City?”
“I don’t know.”
Landon’s patience frayed.
The priest watched him.
“Your brother said you would ask the wrong question first.”
Landon stared.
“What’s the right question?”
“He said you should ask why he didn’t come home.”
Landon’s anger disappeared.
“Why?”
The priest handed him one letter.
Unlike the others, it was sealed with tape.
“He asked me to give this to you only if Adrian Vale was arrested.”
Landon opened it.
Brother,
If Vale has fallen, then you did what I could not.
But if you are reading this, understand something before you come looking.
I stayed away because I learned Vale was not only watching me.
He had someone inside our family.
Not business.
Family.
Someone close enough to Leo to know his routines.
I could not return until I knew who.
Landon stopped reading.
Serena whispered, “Inside the family?”
Dominic’s expression darkened.
Landon continued.
I believe the person is still there.
Do not trust anyone simply because they cried at my funeral.
Landon thought of Isabella.
Impossible.
Then cousins.
Uncles.
Godparents.
Family friends.
Dozens.
At the bottom Santino had added:
If you want to find me, ask Leo what color the moon was.
Landon stared.
Another child’s clue.
He called Isabella.
Leo answered.
“Uncle Landon!”
“Hey, buddy.”
“Did you find Papa?”
“Not yet.”
A pause.
“But I need help.”
“Okay.”
“What color was the moon?”
Silence.
Then Leo giggled.
“That’s silly.”
“Why?”
“Papa said the moon was green.”
Serena frowned.
Landon asked, “Why green?”
“Because we ate green moon cake.”
“What?”
Isabella took the phone.
“He means pistachio cake.”
“When?”
“We had it in Italy.”
“Where?”
“Lake Como.”
Landon looked at Serena.
Northern Italy.
Santino’s destination.
“Hotel?”
“No. A villa belonging to my aunt.”
“Which aunt?”
Isabella paused.
“My mother’s sister.”
“Name?”
“Celeste Romano.”
Landon remembered Celeste.
Elegant.
Wealthy.
Private.
She had attended Santino’s funeral.
Cried harder than almost anyone.
His brother’s warning returned.
Do not trust anyone simply because they cried at my funeral.
Landon felt cold.
“Isabella, when did Celeste last see Leo?”
“Last week.”
The day before the kidnapping.
And suddenly the most dangerous betrayal in the entire story was no longer hiding inside Moretti business.
May you like
It was sitting at the family dinner table.
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