Chapter 3 - MY MOTHER’S BROTHERMy mother’s name was Sofia Moretti.
She became Sofia Hale after marrying my father.
Then Sofia Collins after divorcing him.
Most people who knew me as Lena Collins never knew where Moretti fit.
That was intentional.
My mother grew up in Brooklyn with three brothers.
Vincent was the youngest.
Their father owned trucking companies, social clubs, warehouses, and enough legitimate businesses that family photographs always looked respectable.
The less respectable parts were never explained to me directly.
They didn’t need to be.
My mother left when I was eleven.
Not New York.
The family.
We moved to Connecticut first, then New Jersey.
She stopped attending Moretti weddings.
Stopped accepting money.
Stopped taking Vincent’s calls.
When I asked why, she said:
“Some kinds of protection cost too much.”
That sentence became a family commandment.
We were not Morettis.
We did not ask favors.
We did not owe anyone.
After Mom died, I worked.
Waitress.
Restaurant hostess.
Catering shifts.
Eventually bar manager.
I met Derek at a Manhattan hotel where I was covering a private corporate dinner.
He wore an expensive watch.
Ordered bourbon.
Tipped two hundred dollars.
He made me laugh.
For the first year, he liked that I worked.
“You don’t need anybody.”
He said it like admiration.
After we married, the meaning changed.
“You’d have nothing without me.”
Derek worked in commercial property investment.
Or at least that was the simple version he gave me.
He had money.
Not Moretti money.
Enough money to make my seventy-hour workweeks look ridiculous to him.
He bought the penthouse before our wedding.
His name alone was on the deed.
He reminded me whenever we fought.
“My house.”
“My building.”
“My life you’re living in.”
I kept working anyway.
At first because I loved the restaurant.
Later because the paycheck felt like one thing that still proved I existed outside Derek.
He hated that.
Then something strange happened two years into the marriage.
He asked about my mother’s maiden name.
“Moretti.”
He laughed.
“You’re kidding.”
“No.”
“What Morettis?”
I told him the truth.
Brooklyn family.
Estranged.
Nothing to do with me.
Derek became fascinated.
I shut it down.
Eventually I believed he had too.
At the hospital, Vincent asked:
“When did he learn who I was?”
“Years ago.”
“How?”
“I told him.”
Vincent’s expression tightened.
“Did you give him my number?”
“No.”
“Address?”
“No.”
“Any names connected to my businesses?”
“No.”
“Why?”
I stared at him.
“Because my mother raised me.”
For the first time, Vincent almost smiled.
“Fair.”
Then he asked one question I didn’t understand.
“Did Derek ever use the Moretti name around business associates?”
I frowned.
“Why would he?”
May you like
Vincent looked toward the hospital door.
“That’s what I intend to find out.”
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