Chapter 2 - The Widow Who Wasn’t DeadThree years later, Chicago society believed Vincent Moretti was a widower.
Vincent had never corrected anyone.
He had never remarried Sophia either.
That fact became a favorite subject of gossip columns.
People assumed grief had made him sentimental.
They were wrong.
Grief had made him dangerous.
Vincent stood inside his office overlooking the Chicago River, reading a report from Moretti Holdings.
Someone had been stealing from him.
Again.
Twenty-three million dollars had moved through shell companies connected to his legitimate construction empire.
His chief financial officer, Dominic Russo, stood across the desk.
“The transfers began before the crash.”
Vincent looked up.
“How far before?”
“Almost a year.”
Vincent’s jaw hardened.
Anna’s father had once tried to discuss irregularities with him.
Vincent had dismissed Marcus Bennett as an accountant who disliked the Moretti family.
Then Marcus died from what police ruled a heart attack.
Eight months later Anna died.
Vincent had spent three years wondering what he had missed.
“Who authorized these accounts?”
Dominic hesitated.
“Your uncle’s office.”
Vincent leaned back.
Carlo Moretti had practically raised him after Vincent’s father was murdered.
Accusing Carlo was not simple.
“Does he know we found this?”
“No.”
“Keep it that way.”
That evening Vincent attended the Moretti Foundation charity gala.
Sophia stood beside him in silver.
She had become a familiar presence in his life again, though never completely.
“You look like you’re attending a funeral,” Sophia murmured.
“Maybe I am.”
“Vincent.”
He picked up a champagne glass he did not drink from.
Three years earlier, Sophia had tried to talk about the crash.
Vincent had refused.
Eventually they stopped discussing Anna.
Tonight the ballroom glowed beneath golden chandeliers.
Politicians, investors and old Chicago families crowded the marble floor.
Then a woman crossed between two tables.
Vincent stopped breathing.
Emerald silk.
Natural curls.
Warm-brown skin.
A face he had kissed every morning for four years.
His champagne glass slipped slightly in his hand.
“Anna?”
Sophia followed his stare.
The color vanished from her face.
Her glass hit the marble.
CRASH.
Conversation around them stopped.
Anna turned.
For three years she had imagined this moment.
She had imagined screaming.
Slapping him.
Demanding why Sophia had mattered more.
Instead she felt strangely calm.
Vincent pushed through the guests.
People recognized the supposedly dead Mrs. Moretti.
Phones appeared.
Whispers exploded across the ballroom.
“Anna.”
Vincent stopped a few feet away.
His eyes traveled over her face as if confirming each feature.
“You’re alive.”
Anna gave a cold smile.
“That appears to be upsetting several people.”
Sophia approached slowly.
“How?”
Anna looked at her.
“Hello, Sophia.”
Before Sophia could answer, a small figure ran from beside a banquet table.
“Mommy!”
Gabriel crashed happily into Anna’s legs.
She bent and lifted him.
Vincent stared.
The boy had Anna’s skin tone, soft dark curls and gray-green eyes.
Vincent knew those eyes.
He saw them every morning in the mirror.
“Your son?” he whispered.
Anna tightened her arms around Gabriel.
“My son.”
“How old?”
“That’s an interesting first question.”
“Anna—”
“You thought I was dead for three years and you ask his age?”
Vincent lowered his voice.
“Is he mine?”
Sophia went rigid.
Anna looked directly at him.
“I didn’t come here to discuss Gabriel.”
“Then why did you come?”
A photographer’s flash exploded nearby.
Anna turned toward the stage.
“Because your foundation is auctioning property tonight.”
Vincent frowned.
“What property?”
“The Bennett Community Center.”
Vincent’s face changed.
Marcus Bennett had created that center decades ago for low-income families on Chicago’s South Side.
Moretti Holdings had acquired the surrounding land after Marcus died.
Anna had begged Vincent never to touch the center.
He had promised her.
Vincent turned toward Dominic.
“We aren’t selling it.”
Dominic looked confused.
“It’s listed in the redevelopment package.”
“Remove it.”
A voice behind them interrupted.
“You can’t.”
Carlo Moretti approached.
At sixty-four, Carlo still possessed the polished charm that had allowed him to survive Chicago’s criminal underworld while presenting himself publicly as a respected businessman.
His eyes landed on Anna.
For half a second, something ugly appeared in them.
Then he smiled.
“Anna Bennett.”
She shifted Gabriel higher.
“Carlo.”
“My God. A miracle.”
Anna’s smile never reached her eyes.
“Not everyone is pleased.”
Carlo ignored the accusation.
Vincent stepped between them.
“Why is the Bennett Center being sold?”
Carlo shrugged.
“Corporate restructuring.”
“I said years ago it was protected.”
“Yes. When Anna was alive.”
Silence spread around them.
Anna looked at Vincent.
There it was again.
Ownership.
Power.
The assumption that her death erased her wishes.
She reached into her evening bag.
“I think the auction committee should see something.”
She handed Vincent a folded document.
He opened it.
A deed.
The Bennett Community Center had never belonged to Moretti Holdings.
Marcus Bennett had transferred ownership eighteen months before his death into an irrevocable charitable trust.
Trustee: Anna Bennett Moretti.
Vincent stared.
“This means—”
“You cannot sell it.”
Carlo’s calm finally cracked.
“That document is fraudulent.”
Anna looked at him.
“You sound certain.”
“I know every Bennett asset.”
“That’s interesting.”
Carlo realized his mistake.
Vincent looked from the deed to his uncle.
“How would you know every Bennett asset?”
Carlo smiled thinly.
“I handled the acquisition.”
Anna reached for Gabriel’s hand.
“I should go.”
Vincent blocked her path.
“No.”
Her eyes flashed.
“You abandoned me once inside a burning airplane. Don’t make the mistake of thinking you can stop me from walking out of a ballroom.”
The words hit him visibly.
Vincent stepped aside.
Anna passed.
Gabriel glanced over her shoulder at Vincent.
For a moment, their eyes met.
Vincent felt something tear open inside him.
Then Gabriel disappeared through the crowd.
Carlo quietly approached Vincent.
“Forget them.”
Vincent turned.
“What?”
“Anna survived without contacting you. She clearly has reasons.”
Vincent studied his uncle.
“And you seem strangely uninterested in what those reasons are.”
Carlo’s smile disappeared.
Across the ballroom, Sophia picked up her purse.
A folded note had been slipped inside.
She opened it secretly.
SOPHIA CARTER.
YOU WERE NEVER SUPPOSED TO SURVIVE THE PLANE EITHER.
Sophia looked toward Carlo.
For the first time in three years, she understood something Anna already knew.
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The explosion had not been meant for one woman.
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