Chapter 10 - The Father I Had Not Been
The night before Dominic's full interview, three men arrived at my estate offering the kind of loyalty that had once made me powerful.
They had heard whispers about Adrian, Miles, and the second vehicle, and they believed grief justified settling the matter before a judge could intervene.
One spoke of making an example, another of teaching silence, and the youngest kept his hand too close to the pistol beneath his coat.
I looked at them across the library table and saw men prepared to kill strangers on the strength of half-understood evidence.
It was a reflection of the world I had built, and for the first time I felt ashamed that they thought this offer would comfort me.
"Put the weapons away," I ordered, "and leave anyone connected to Isabella's death to the investigators."
The eldest reminded me that the Moretti name had survived because enemies feared the price of crossing us.
I answered that my daughter's life had not survived all that fear, which was reason enough to question its value.
They left without another argument, but I knew the old system would not disappear because I had spoken one new sentence.
I called my legal counsel, offered full cooperation regarding the foundation, and asked what it would take to separate legitimate companies from unlawful arrangements.
She did not promise an easy transition, and she warned that transparency could invite investigations into decisions I had made years before Isabella was born.
I said I would rather lose my fortune than build another monument from money my daughter would have questioned.
Gabriel listened without interruption, though the decision threatened the network of relationships that had paid his salary for a decade.
"You don't have to choose all of this tonight," he said after the call, "but you cannot pretend tomorrow that you never said it."
I told him he should hold me to my words, even when the consequences became inconvenient.
Onyx slept near the fireplace, his black fur shining red in the flames, and I remembered the first night Isabella brought him home.
She had been fifteen and furious that a breeder wanted to discard the oversized puppy because he was difficult to handle.
She insisted the animal did not need someone frightening enough to dominate him, only someone patient enough to earn his trust.
I had laughed then, suggesting that she was describing a dog and not her father, and she had smiled without correcting me.
That memory made me understand the life she had spent trying to build inside a family famous for threats.
The next morning I met Reyes privately and asked whether my past conduct could interfere with the prosecution of her killers.
She said defense attorneys would undoubtedly question my motives, credibility, and possible interest in shifting suspicion away from myself.
She advised honesty, documentation, and the discipline to leave unanswered questions unanswered, even when a jury expected certainty.
I disclosed a history of business arrangements that might connect me to Adrian's shell companies, explaining the difference between what I knew and what I merely suspected.
Some transactions were embarrassing and potentially unlawful, and my lawyers made clear that helping the investigation was no guarantee of immunity.
I accepted that risk because Isabella had died trying to make powerful people answer for money hidden behind reassuring words.
If I refused to answer for my own choices, her fight would become nothing more than convenient language in my mouth.
That afternoon Priya reported that an independent board had agreed to maintain the clinic programs during the investigation.
Funds would be released only against verified invoices, and no Moretti executive could approve a transfer alone.
Sarah sent a photograph of the first patients being examined in a newly supplied mobile unit, along with a note that thanked Isabella rather than me.
I stared at the image until the tiny figures blurred, relieved that one promise to her was becoming real.
When I returned home, my sister Lucia visited with the photograph of Isabella taken on her twentieth birthday.
Lucia had helped raise her after my wife Sofia died, and she knew more about our daughter's fears than I ever had.
"She loved you," Lucia said, setting the frame on the kitchen table, "but she didn't believe you when you called everyone around you family."
I asked whether Isabella had told her about the foundation records, and Lucia said she mentioned feeling watched after a difficult board meeting.
Lucia had offered to accompany her to the police, but Isabella wanted to secure the documents before making an accusation.
"Why didn't you tell me?" I asked, hating the helplessness inside my voice.
"Because you would have sent Dominic," Lucia replied, and the words settled between us like a door locking.
She was right, and no amount of wealth could soften what that simple answer revealed.
I had made my daughter afraid that asking her father for help would bring the very person she mistrusted closer to her.
Lucia took my hand and said guilt should make me change, not give me another reason to punish myself instead of acting.
We spent the evening recalling Isabella's ordinary absurdities, from terrible homemade birthday cakes to the way she argued with weather forecasts.
For the first time since the funeral, I laughed without feeling I had betrayed her by surviving.
Later, Reyes called to say Dominic's attorney was arranging a formal statement under an agreement that still required scrutiny by prosecutors.
She warned that he might minimize his own role and that every claim about Adrian or Miles would need independent corroboration.
I thanked her and asked that she not tell me details until it was appropriate, because I no longer wanted privileged knowledge that could compromise a case.
Gabriel looked at me as though I had surrendered one of the last things that made me Vincent Moretti.
"Maybe I have," I answered when he finally said so, "and maybe Isabella deserved a father who could do that sooner."
Before bed, I returned to her room and folded the pale-blue coat she had left over a chair.
Its pockets contained a subway receipt, two coins, and a handwritten reminder to call someone named Elena about missing invoices.
Even in the small things, her last days had been organized around questions I refused to hear.
May you like
I put the coat back where I found it and turned out the light, leaving the room untouched but no longer using its silence as an excuse to stand still.
Tomorrow Dominic would tell his story, and whether it condemned him or confirmed his fear, I intended to hear it without turning the answer into another burial.
