Chapter 2 - The Clinic Had Kept His Childhood Photograph

The clinic was forty minutes away.

Alessio drove himself.

Irene sat beside him.

I sat in the back.

Sophie Lane.

Maid.

Apparently also the person holding an old hospital ledger nobody wanted destroyed anymore.

Valentina followed in another car with Dr. Cross.

Nobody invited the elderly adviser.

Security kept him at the estate.

His name was Victor Hale.

Eighty-one.

Former adviser to Alessio’s grandfather.

The clinic stood behind iron gates.

Dark brick.

Three floors.

Only one light was on.

Alessio stopped at the front doors.

Irene touched his arm.

“They’re inside.”

He looked at her.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“Did they know I was coming?”

“They hoped.”

“That is not what I asked.”

Irene lowered her eyes.

“No.”

Alessio opened the door.

The lobby smelled like dust and disinfectant.

One nurse’s station.

Empty.

One hallway.

Lit.

At the end stood a man.

Sixty-three.

Gray hair.

Broad shoulders.

A cane in his left hand.

Anthony Moretti.

Alessio stopped.

Anthony stopped too.

For several seconds, neither moved.

Then a woman stepped from behind him.

Maria.

Sixty.

Dark hair streaked with silver.

Same eyes as Alessio.

She covered her mouth.

“My son.”

Alessio’s face changed.

He looked at Anthony.

Then Maria.

Then back at Irene.

“They look older.”

Irene whispered:

“So do you.”

Maria walked forward.

Alessio stepped back.

She froze.

“I’m sorry.”

He laughed once.

No humor.

“I keep hearing that tonight.”

Anthony’s voice was rough.

“You have every right to hate us.”

Alessio looked at him.

“I buried you.”

Anthony nodded.

“I know.”

“I stood beside your grave every year.”

“I know.”

“You know?”

Anthony looked away.

Maria began crying.

Alessio’s jaw tightened.

“You watched me?”

Maria whispered:

“Sometimes.”

“How many times?”

“From far away.”

“Birthdays?”

“Yes.”

“Funeral anniversaries?”

“Yes.”

He stared at them.

“So you knew where I was.”

Anthony answered:

“After 2018.”

Alessio went still.

“Before that?”

“We believed you were dead.”

Maria reached into her coat.

A photograph.

A small boy.

Six years old.

Standing beside a black bicycle.

Alessio took it.

“That’s me.”

“Yes.”

“Where did you get this?”

Maria’s hand trembled.

“It was attached to your death notice.”

Alessio stared at the back.

A handwritten date.

1996.

He looked up.

“Who sent it?”

Anthony answered:

“Victor Hale.”

Silence.

Alessio turned slowly.

“The adviser.”

“Yes.”

Anthony continued.

“He told us your grandmother died in a house fire.”

“She died of a stroke.”

“I know that now.”

“He told you I died too?”

“Yes.”

Alessio looked at Maria.

“And you believed him.”

“We had no reason not to.”

“You had a son.”

Maria started crying harder.

“We were hiding with false names.”

“That stopped you from calling?”

Anthony stepped forward.

“It was not that simple.”

Alessio’s expression hardened.

“It had better become simple very quickly.”

Anthony nodded.

“He controlled the old Moretti network.”

“I know.”

“No.”

Anthony looked directly at him.

“You know the version he allowed you to inherit.”

Alessio frowned.

Anthony continued.

“Victor did not work for your grandfather.”

“He worked through him.”

Silence.

Irene closed her eyes.

Anthony said:

“Your grandfather wanted out.”

Alessio stared.

“Out of what?”

“The organization.”

Alessio’s breathing changed.

Anthony continued.

“He planned to divide the legitimate businesses and shut down everything else.”

“And Victor?”

“Victor would have lost control.”

Maria whispered:

“So he staged the car accident.”

Alessio looked at Anthony.

“The accident that supposedly killed you.”

“Yes.”

“Did he mean to kill you?”

“Yes.”

Anthony tapped his cane.

“He almost succeeded.”

Alessio looked at Maria.

“And you?”

“I helped him disappear.”

“Then faked your death.”

“Yes.”

“Why leave me with Grandmother?”

Maria wiped her eyes.

“Because Victor believed you were with us.”

Anthony added:

“Your grandmother promised to move you.”

“She died a year later.”

“Yes.”

“And neither of you came back.”

Maria closed her eyes.

“Because three weeks after her death, Victor sent us your death notice.”

Alessio looked at the childhood photograph again.

A six-year-old boy declared dead.

His own face.

His own name.

His own funeral.

Anthony reached into his coat.

He handed Alessio a folded newspaper clipping.

LOCAL CHILD DIES FOLLOWING PRIVATE ILLNESS.

ALESSIO MORETTI.

Age six.

Alessio stared.

“Who published this?”

“A paper Victor controlled.”

Irene spoke quietly.

“There was no body.”

Maria nodded.

“But there was a small closed coffin.”

Alessio looked up.

“You attended my funeral?”

Maria’s face broke.

“Yes.”

Nobody moved.

Anthony whispered:

“We stood twenty yards away.”

Alessio lowered the clipping.

“And you let them bury an empty coffin.”

“We thought you were inside.”

His eyes filled.

He looked away.

Then back.

“What changed in 2018?”

Anthony answered:

“I saw you on television.”

Alessio stared.

“A charity interview.”

“Yes.”

“You recognized me.”

“Immediately.”

Maria smiled through tears.

“You tilt your head exactly like your father.”

Anthony almost smiled.

Alessio did not.

“What did you do?”

“I came back.”

“And Victor found you.”

Anthony’s expression changed.

“Yes.”

Alessio looked at the cane.

“That is how you were injured.”

“Yes.”

“Who attacked you?”

Anthony hesitated.

Maria whispered:

“Victor’s son.”

Alessio frowned.

“Victor has a son?”

Anthony nodded.

“You know him.”

Alessio waited.

Then Anthony said the name.

“Sebastian Hale.”

Alessio went still.

His chief security officer.

The man who had blocked Victor from leaving the gala.

The man currently guarding the estate.

Alessio pulled out his phone.

No signal.

Irene looked at the clinic walls.

“Someone activated the jammer.”

Anthony stared toward the entrance.

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Maria whispered:

“They found us again.”