PART 2.
“Make sure Claire doesn’t come back to the hospital.”
“Lily just gave birth.
She’s exhausted.”
“The last thing she needs right now is dealing with Claire.”
I stood in my mother’s kitchen staring at my husband’s name on her phone.
And for the first time since I had married Dante Moretti, I stopped wondering whether he loved me.
I started wondering exactly how long my entire family had been planning my humiliation.
The phone went dark in my hand.
Upstairs, I heard my mother moving around.
A drawer opened.
Something fell.
Then footsteps.
I placed her phone exactly where she had left it and stepped away from the counter.
By the time Mom returned, I was standing near the refrigerator with my arms folded.
She stopped when she saw me.
For half a second, there was naked fear on her face.
Then it disappeared.
“You’re still here?”
I smiled.
I don’t know how I managed it.
Maybe there is a particular kind of calm that only comes after your heart has already broken.
“Yes.”
“I told you, I need to get back to Lily.”
“I know.”
She reached for her phone.
I watched her check the screen.
Her eyes moved quickly over Dante’s messages.
Then she locked it.
Too late.
“Mom.”
She looked up.
“Who is Isabella’s father?”
Silence.
It was such a simple question.
Four words.
But suddenly my mother seemed unable to breathe.
“Claire—”
“Who is Isabella’s father?”
She put her bag down slowly.
“Lily should tell you.”
A laugh escaped me.
It sounded ugly even to my own ears.
“That’s interesting.”
“Please.”
“No, I’m genuinely interested.
Because approximately twenty minutes ago, I watched my husband hold Lily’s baby while you called him her daddy.”
Her face drained of color.
There it was.
No denial.
No confusion.
No outrage.
Just fear.
I nodded slowly.
“Thank you.”
“Claire, wait.”
“For what?”
“It isn’t what you think.”
I stared at her.
Of all the sentences she could have chosen, that was almost insulting enough to be funny.
“I watched him hold her hand.”
“Listen to me.”
“He called her sweetheart.”
“Claire.”
“You knew.”
Mom closed her eyes.
That hurt more than I expected.
I could have survived her lying badly.
I could have survived her defending Lily.
But that expression told me everything.
She had known for a long time.
“How long?”
“Please sit down.”
“How long?”
Her mouth trembled.
“Since Lily told me she was pregnant.”
I swallowed.
Eight months.
My mother had known for eight months.
Eight months of Sunday dinners.
Eight months of birthday calls.
Eight months of asking me how Dante was.
Eight months of listening to me say my husband barely came home anymore while knowing exactly where he was going.
“Did you know before she got pregnant?”
“No.”
“So that’s supposed to make it better?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Did you help them?”
Mom shook her head.
“I tried to convince Lily to end it.”
Something inside me went cold.
“The pregnancy?”
“The relationship.”
I looked away.
Outside the kitchen window, sunlight spilled across my mother’s little backyard.
The roses I had planted with her three summers ago were blooming.
For some reason, that nearly destroyed me.
Normal things shouldn’t continue existing when your life has just ended.
Birds shouldn’t sing.
Flowers shouldn’t bloom.
Refrigerators shouldn’t hum.
Mothers shouldn’t stand three feet away from their daughters and explain how they managed another daughter’s affair with her husband.
“She loved him,” Mom whispered.
I looked back at her.
“I don’t care.”
“Claire—”
“I do not care.”
“She tried to stop.”
I laughed.
“She accidentally slept with him repeatedly?”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Make this crueler than it already is.”
For several seconds, I simply stared.
Then I stepped closer.
“You are asking the wrong daughter for mercy.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
I felt nothing.
That frightened me.
“Why did you change the security code?”
Mom glanced toward the front door.
I saw the answer before she spoke.
“Dante asked me to.”
Of course he had.
I almost admired the thoroughness.
He lied about Buenos Aires.
He sent me away for cinnamon rolls.
He arranged for my own mother to keep me away from her house.
Apparently betrayal required logistics.
“Why?”
“He knew you sometimes came here when he traveled.”
“So he wanted to make sure I wouldn’t walk in on them?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
Mom hesitated.
That hesitation was different.
Not guilt.
Fear.
And suddenly, for the first time, I understood that there was something else.
Something she was more frightened of discussing than the affair itself.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing.”
“Mom.”
“I have to go.”
She grabbed her bag.
I stepped between her and the door.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
“Move.”
“No.”
Her voice sharpened.
“Claire.”
I had not heard her use that tone since I was seventeen.
Usually, I would have obeyed automatically.
I didn’t.
Instead, I looked at the bag in her hand.
A leather overnight bag.
Unzipped.
Inside were clothes, a charger, toiletries—
and a thick manila envelope.
My name was written across the front.
CLAIRE.
Mom followed my gaze.
Her hand immediately closed the zipper.
Too quickly.
“What is that?”
“Nothing.”
“My name is on it.”
“It’s old paperwork.”
“Give it to me.”
“No.”
I stared at her.
My mother had protected my sister’s affair.
She had lied to my face.
She had taken instructions from my husband.
And now she was carrying documents with my name on them back to a hospital room where all three of them were waiting.
Something primitive woke inside me.
I grabbed the bag.
Mom gasped.
“Claire!”
She held on.
So did I.
For one ridiculous second, mother and daughter stood in the middle of the kitchen fighting over a leather bag.
Then the zipper tore.
The envelope fell.
Papers scattered across the floor.
Mom froze.
So did I.
A photograph landed beside my foot.
It was old.
Maybe thirty years old.
My mother was in it.
She looked impossibly young.
Beside her stood a man I had never seen before.
Dark hair.
Sharp cheekbones.
A familiar, arrogant smile.
Behind them was a casino.
THE MORETTI PALACE.
My pulse stumbled.
“What is this?”
Mom bent down.
I got there first.
On the back of the photograph someone had written:
Elena & Vittorio — 1993.
Vittorio.
I knew that name.
Everyone in Las Vegas knew that name.
Vittorio Moretti.
Dante’s father.
The man who had built the Moretti empire before dying of a heart attack fourteen years ago.
I looked from the photograph to my mother.
“No.”
She said nothing.
“No.”
“Claire, please.”
“Why are you standing next to Dante’s father?”
“It was a long time ago.”
“How long?”
She looked at the photograph.
Then at me.
“Before you were born.”
The room tilted.
My father, Daniel Bennett, had died when I was nineteen.
He had been a high-school history teacher.
Gentle.
Quiet.
Painfully ordinary.
He had hated casinos.
At least, that was what I had always believed.
“You knew Vittorio Moretti?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
Mom sank into a chair.
For the first time that afternoon, she looked old.
“We were involved.”
My stomach clenched.
“Involved?”
“We were young.”
“How involved?”
“Claire.”
“How involved?”
She stared at her hands.
And suddenly I didn’t want the answer anymore.
But she gave it to me anyway.
“I loved him.”
The kitchen became very quiet.
I looked again at the photograph.
At my mother.
At Vittorio.
At the year written beneath their names.
Then I calculated.
My birth year.
“No.”
“Claire—”
“No.”
“Daniel was your father in every way that mattered.”
I stepped backward.
“No.”
“He raised you.
He loved you.”
“Stop.”
“He knew.”
“STOP.”
The word tore out of me.
Mom began crying.
I looked at the face in the photograph again.
Vittorio Moretti.
Dante’s father.
My mind recoiled from the implication.
“Is Dante my—”
“No!”
Mom stood so quickly the chair scraped backward.
“No.
God, no.
Vittorio is not your biological father.”
I nearly collapsed with relief.
Then anger followed immediately.
“Then why are we having this conversation?”
“Because your biological father was Vittorio’s business partner.”
I stopped.
“What?”
Mom wiped her eyes.
“His name was Alexander Vale.”
The name meant nothing to me.
Apparently she could tell.
“You wouldn’t remember him.
By the time you were three, he was gone.”
“Gone where?”
“Dead.”
I stared at her.
“Who was he?”
Mom looked toward the scattered documents on the floor.
And once again, fear entered her expression.
“He owned half of what became Moretti Holdings.”
I almost laughed.
“What?”
“Before there was a Moretti empire, Vittorio and Alexander built it together.
Casinos.
Hotels.
Property.
Alexander handled finance.
Vittorio handled everything else.”
“That’s impossible.”
“It isn’t.”
“My father was Daniel Bennett.”
“Daniel adopted you.”
I pressed both hands against the kitchen counter.
The room felt too small.
Too bright.
Too full of lies.
“So Dante knew?”
Mom didn’t answer quickly enough.
My stomach dropped.
“He knew.”
“Eventually.”
“When?”
“Before he married you.”
That answer hurt differently.
Not like discovering an affair.
Like realizing you had never known where the trap began.
I whispered, “Why?”
Mom glanced toward the papers.
I bent and picked them up.
She didn’t stop me this time.
There were legal documents.
Trust agreements.
Corporate filings.
Copies of old letters.
And a sealed envelope addressed to me in handwriting I didn’t recognize.
One document had been marked with yellow tabs.
I read the first page.
VALE FAMILY TRUST.
Beneficiary: Claire Elise Bennett.
I looked up.
“What is this?”
“Your inheritance.”
“I don’t have an inheritance.”
“Yes, you do.”
My hands began shaking.
“How much?”
“It isn’t money.”
“What is it?”
She swallowed.
“Shares.”
I looked down again.
Moretti Holdings.
Voting stock.
Properties.
Casinos.
Subsidiaries.
Numbers blurred together.
Then one figure became perfectly clear.
Thirty-four percent.
I laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because apparently losing my mind was the only reasonable response left.
“You’re telling me I own a third of my husband’s company?”
“Technically, the trust does.”
“Does Dante know?”
“Yes.”
Of course.
Of course he knew.
“How?”
“Vittorio told him before he died.”
“And Dante married me anyway.”
Mom’s silence was answer enough.
I folded the papers slowly.
“So that’s it.”
“No.”
“He married me for the shares.”
“It wasn’t that simple.”
“It never is, apparently.”
“Claire, he did care about you.”
“Did?”
Mom flinched.
That single syllable told me more than any confession could have.
I looked at the document again.
My marriage.
Three years.
Every private dinner.
Every expensive anniversary.
Every night I waited for him.
Every time he touched my face and told me the Moretti world was dangerous and I should stay away from his business.
He hadn’t been protecting me from his world.
He had been keeping me ignorant of the fact that part of it belonged to me.
My phone rang.
Dante.
I stared at his name.
Mom whispered, “Answer him.”
“No.”
“He already knows you left the hospital.”
“Good.”
“He has people looking for you.”
That made me smile.
“Even better.”
“Claire, you don’t understand what’s happening.”
“No.
But I’m beginning to.”
I gathered every document from the floor.
Mom reached toward them.
I stepped away.
“These are mine.”
“Some of them—”
“My name is on the trust.”
She lowered her hand.
I picked up the photograph.
“And this?”
“Keep it.”
I slipped everything into the envelope.
My phone rang again.
Dante.
Then stopped.
Immediately, a message appeared.
Where are you?
Another.
Claire, call me.
Then:
Do not leave your mother’s house.
I stared at that one.
Three years of marriage, and Dante still had not learned the most basic thing about me.
Ordering me not to do something was an excellent way to make certain I did it.
I grabbed my purse.
Mom stepped forward.
“Where are you going?”
“To find someone Dante doesn’t control.”
“There is no one in this city Dante doesn’t control.”
I stopped.
Then smiled.
“I know one.”
Twenty-five minutes later, I walked into the offices of Nathan Cole.
Nathan had been Dante’s attorney once.
Until five years ago, when they had nearly killed each other.
No one knew exactly what happened between them.
Only that Nathan now represented people powerful enough not to fear the Moretti name.
His receptionist looked startled when I introduced myself.
“I need to see Mr.
Cole.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No.”
“He’s in a meeting.”
“Tell him Dante Moretti’s wife has the Vale trust documents.”
Her expression changed instantly.
Five minutes later, Nathan Cole opened his office door himself.
He was in his early forties, silver beginning at his temples, expensive suit, cold eyes.
He looked at the envelope in my hands.
Then at me.
“My office.”
He locked the door behind us.
I put the papers on his desk.
Nathan didn’t touch them immediately.
“Where did you get these?”
“My mother.”
He cursed quietly.
“You know what they are?”
“I know everyone in my life has apparently been lying to me since birth.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“No.”
Nathan opened the trust documents.
He read for nearly ten minutes.
The silence became unbearable.
Finally, he leaned back.
“When was Lily’s daughter born?”
“This afternoon.”
“And Dante has acknowledged paternity?”
“My mother called him the father in front of everyone.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“I don’t know.”
Nathan picked up his phone.
“What are you doing?”
“Checking something.”
He made one call.
Then another.
He asked questions using words I barely understood.
Beneficial interest.
Voting transfer.
Contingency clause.
Extramarital issue.
Each phrase made my skin colder.
Finally, he hung up.
Then he looked at me.
“Claire, whatever you do tonight, do not file for divorce.”
I stared at him.
“I wasn’t planning on doing it tonight.”
“Don’t sign anything either.”
“Why?”
“Because your husband has a problem.”
“Apparently he has several.”
Nathan almost smiled.
Then he turned the trust agreement toward me and tapped a paragraph near the bottom.
“Your biological father expected Vittorio Moretti to attempt to absorb his shares after his death.”
“Did he?”
“Yes.”
“Then why didn’t he?”
“Because he couldn’t.
The shares were placed into trust for Alexander’s only surviving child.”
“Me.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t I control them when I turned eighteen?”
“Because of a succession agreement.”
Nathan paused.
“Vittorio negotiated control of the voting rights until one of several triggering events occurred.”
“What events?”
“His death was not enough.
Neither was Alexander’s.
But your marriage to Vittorio’s legitimate heir changed the arrangement.”
“Dante.”
Nathan nodded.
“As long as the marriage remained intact and Dante produced no acknowledged child outside the marriage, he retained voting control over both family blocks.”
I stared at him.
“And if he did?”
Nathan’s gaze held mine.
“Then the Vale block immediately reverts to you.”
My mouth went dry.
“How much?”
“Your original thirty-four percent.”
“That doesn’t sound like enough to matter.”
“It is when combined with the penalty clause.”
“What penalty clause?”
Nathan flipped several pages.
“If Dante publicly or legally acknowledges an illegitimate child while married to the Vale beneficiary, seventeen percent of the Moretti family voting stock transfers into the Vale trust.”
I stared at the numbers.
Thirty-four.
Plus seventeen.
My heartbeat slowed.
“Fifty-one percent.”
“Yes.”
I whispered, “Majority control.”
Nathan nodded.
“Of Moretti Holdings.”
For a long moment, neither of us spoke.
Then I understood the hospital.
The secrecy.
The altered security code.
The messages.
Don’t let Claire come back.
Not because Lily was fragile.
Not because Dante wanted to protect her.
Because Isabella’s birth could cost him his empire.
And if I learned the truth first—
the empire became mine.
“He wasn’t hiding the affair,” I whispered.
Nathan’s expression hardened.
“He was hiding the consequence.”
My phone rang again.
Dante.
I declined it.
Nathan stood.
“That was a mistake.”
“I’ve been making those for three years.”
“No.
I mean coming here may have been a mistake.”
He walked to his window.
Below us, a black SUV had stopped across the street.
Then another.
Three men stepped out.
All wearing dark suits.
All familiar.
Dante’s security.
“He found me.”
Nathan looked at me.
“Of course he found you.”
“Can they come up here?”
“They can try.”
My phone buzzed.
A message.
Dante.
Come downstairs.
I typed back for the first time.
No.
His answer arrived immediately.
This isn’t a request.
Something inside me changed.
Maybe it had been changing since the hospital.
Maybe since before that.
I thought about the nights I had waited for him.
The excuses I accepted.
The apologies I gave when he was the one who disappeared.
I thought about Lily crying in my kitchen and asking if I would hate her.
Mom changing her security code.
Dante holding Isabella.
My husband had spent years believing knowledge belonged to him and obedience belonged to me.
I looked at Nathan.
“What happens if I exercise control of the shares?”
His eyebrows rose.
“You could call an emergency board meeting.”
“And?”
“If the transfer is enforceable?”
“Yes.”
“You could remove Dante as chief executive.”
For the first time all day, I smiled without forcing it.
The elevator bell sounded outside Nathan’s office.
Nathan sighed.
“That would be him.”
The door opened moments later.
Dante entered alone.
He had removed his jacket.
His white shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbows.
I had seen him angry before.
I had seen him threaten men twice his size without raising his voice.
But I had never seen him afraid.
Until now.
His eyes went straight to the papers.
Then to me.
“Claire.”
“Buenos Aires seems lovely this time of year.”
His jaw tightened.
Nathan stepped between us.
“She came here voluntarily.”
“I’m speaking to my wife.”
“And I’m representing her.”
Dante’s gaze sharpened.
“You haven’t represented anyone in this family for five years.”
Nathan smiled faintly.
“Things change.”
I picked up the trust agreement.
“Apparently families do too.”
Dante looked at me.
For one second, something almost human crossed his face.
Regret.
Then the mask returned.
“Come home.”
“No.”
“We need to talk privately.”
“Did you sleep with my sister privately?”
Nathan glanced away.
Dante closed his eyes.
That tiny reaction told me he had no denial prepared.
“How long?”
I asked.
“Claire.”
“How long?”
He looked at me.
“Fourteen months.”
I had thought knowing would make the pain worse.
It didn’t.
It made it cleaner.
Fourteen months.
Not a mistake.
Not one drunken night.
A relationship.
“Do you love her?”
Silence.
I nodded.
“Right.”
“Claire—”
“Do you love her?”
“Yes.”
The word landed quietly.
Almost gently.
I wished he had lied.
He took a step toward me.
“But that doesn’t mean I never cared about you.”
I laughed.
“That sentence should be engraved on our divorce papers.”
“You cannot divorce me yet.”
There it was.
Nathan’s expression hardened.
I lifted the trust agreement.
“Because of this?”
Dante said nothing.
“Because if Isabella is legally yours, I own fifty-one percent.”
His eyes moved to Nathan.
“You told her.”
“She deserved to know.”
“She deserved to be kept alive.”
The room went silent.
I stared at Dante.
“What did you say?”
Dante’s expression changed.
And suddenly the betrayal disappeared behind something darker.
Something I had seen in his face only once before, years ago, when someone had tried to shoot him outside one of his casinos.
Fear.
Real fear.
He crossed the room and grabbed the blinds shut.
Nathan swore.
“Dante.”
“You shouldn’t have brought her here.”
“What are you talking about?”
Dante turned to me.
“Your father didn’t die naturally.”
My breath caught.
“Alexander?”
“Yes.”
“You said you barely knew anything about him.”
“I lied.”
“Obviously.”
“He was murdered because of those shares.”
I looked at Nathan.
His face had gone still.
Too still.
He knew.
“You knew too?”
Nathan didn’t answer.
I laughed bitterly.
“Wonderful.
Is there anyone in Las Vegas who hasn’t been keeping secrets from me?”
Dante stepped closer.
“Listen carefully.
The second Isabella was born, the transfer clause became vulnerable to activation.”
“Good.”
“No, Claire.
Not good.”
“Why?”
“Because there are people who have been waiting thirty years for the Vale shares to become active again.”
“Who?”
He hesitated.
Then my phone rang.
Unknown number.
Everyone looked at it.
I answered.
“Hello?”
For several seconds, there was nothing.
Then a man spoke.
“Claire Vale.”
My blood turned cold.
No one had ever called me that.
“Who is this?”
The man laughed softly.
“Ask your husband.”
I looked at Dante.
His face had become completely white.
The voice continued.
“Congratulations on becoming the most valuable woman in Las Vegas.”
The call ended.
I lowered the phone.
Dante immediately reached for it.
I pulled away.
“Who was that?”
He didn’t answer.
“Dante.”
“Someone who shouldn’t know your trust activated.”
“How could he know?”
Dante turned toward Nathan.
Then everything happened at once.
The office lights went out.
A gunshot exploded somewhere downstairs.
Nathan dragged me behind his desk.
Dante pulled a pistol from the back of his waistband.
Of course he had one.
Another shot.
Then screaming.
Dante moved toward the door.
I grabbed his arm.
“Who is coming?”
He looked down at my hand.
Then at me.
And for the first time in our marriage, Dante Moretti answered without trying to control the truth.
“The people who killed your father.”
A crash sounded in the hallway.
Nathan unlocked a hidden panel behind a bookshelf.
“Service stairs.”
Dante shoved the trust documents into my arms.
“Take these.”
“What about you?”
His eyes met mine.
Fourteen months with my sister.
A newborn daughter.
Three years of lies.
And still, absurdly, some part of me remembered loving him.
“Go with Nathan.”
Another gunshot.
Closer.
“Dante—”
“Claire, GO.”
Nathan pulled me toward the hidden doorway.
Before I crossed through it, I looked back.
Dante stood alone in the dark office, gun raised toward the entrance.
Then he said something that stopped me.
“One more thing.”
“What?”
He looked at the old photograph still sticking out of the envelope.
“Your mother lied about Alexander too.”
My blood froze.
“What do you mean?”
The office door shuddered under a violent impact.
Dante raised his gun.
“Alexander Vale survived the attack thirty years ago.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
Another impact.
The lock cracked.
Dante’s eyes stayed on mine.
“He didn’t die, Claire.”
The door began to open.
“He’s the man who just called you.”
…If you want to know what happened next, please type “YES” and like for more.
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Source: Stories of Destiny · Thao Thao
