Chapter 3 - UNDER THE CHURCH
We found Grace beneath St. Matthew's Church.
It was almost midnight.
Rain hammered Manhattan.
My ribs screamed every time the wheelchair crossed uneven pavement.
Marco wanted me to stay in the armored vehicle.
I refused.
When we entered the church, the priest was waiting.
“Mr. Moretti.”
“You know me?”
“I know who you are.”
“Where's the nurse?”
The priest glanced toward the altar.
“Follow me.”
We descended a narrow staircase.
The air smelled of stone and candle wax.
At the bottom was an old basement.
Grace stood beside a wooden table.
And beside her was the boy.
Alive.
He saw me.
His eyes widened.
“You came.”
I stared at him.
“You called me.”
He nodded.
Grace stepped between us.
“He's terrified.”
I looked at her.
“So am I.”
That surprised her.
“You?”
I nodded.
“Someone tried to kill me. Someone erased this child from my medical records. Someone tried to remove you from the hospital.”
I looked at the boy.
“And someone knows enough to be afraid of him.”
Grace crouched beside the child.
“This is Daniel.”
The boy looked down.
“My name isn't Daniel.”
Grace frowned.
“What is it?”
He whispered:
“Michael.”
My heart stopped.
Michael.
The name of my younger brother.
A brother I had been told died twenty-four years ago.
I stared at the child.
“That isn't possible.”
Grace looked confused.
“Why?”
I couldn't answer.
The boy pulled the black cross from his neck.
He opened it.
Inside was a tiny photograph.
A young woman.
Holding a newborn baby.
I recognized the woman.
My mother.
My hands began shaking.
“Where did you get that?”
Michael looked at me.
“She gave it to me.”
“Who?”
“My mother.”
“What's her name?”
He whispered:
“Lucia.”
My mother had been named Lucia Moretti.
She had died when I was fourteen.
Or so I had believed.
I looked at Grace.
She looked equally stunned.
“My God.”
The priest crossed himself.
“Your family has been hiding many things.”
I turned.
“What do you know?”
He sighed.
“Your mother came here many years ago.”
“When?”
“Shortly before her death.”
“What did she say?”
“She told me that if anything happened to her, I was to protect the child.”
“Michael?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
The priest looked at me.
“Because the child was the legal heir to something your father had stolen.”
I felt sick.
“My father?”
“Your father built the Moretti empire.”
I nodded.
“He also built something else.”
“What?”
“A private network.”
The priest's voice lowered.
“Politicians. Judges. Police commanders. Shipping executives.”
“The Black Network.”
He nodded.
I'd heard rumors.
Everyone had.
But I'd never believed it existed.
“Your father controlled it,” the priest said. “Then he died.”
I frowned.
“My father died twenty-five years ago.”
“No.”
The priest looked at me.
“He disappeared.”
The room went silent.
Grace stepped closer.
“Why would your family lie about that?”
I looked at Michael.
The boy was staring at me.
“Because someone wanted him dead.”
Michael shook his head.
“No.”
I crouched beside him despite the pain.
“Then why?”
He whispered:
“Because Daddy was scared of Vanessa.”
Every muscle in my body tightened.
Grace looked at me.
“Vanessa?”
Michael nodded.
“She told Mommy Uncle Dominic would never find me.”
My blood ran cold.
“Uncle Dominic?”
The boy nodded.
“You're my uncle.”
I couldn't breathe.
A child.
My brother's child.
My nephew.
Alive.
Hidden.
And somehow connected to the woman I was supposed to marry.
A gunshot exploded upstairs.
Grace grabbed Michael.
Marco shouted from the stairwell.
“DOWN!”
More shots.
Men stormed into the basement.
I reached for my weapon.
My ribs nearly gave out.
Grace pulled Michael behind the stone wall.
I fired.
One attacker fell.
Another disappeared behind a pillar.
Marco returned fire.
Then silence.
We waited.
Nothing.
Finally, Marco shouted:
“Clear!”
I looked at Grace.
She was holding Michael.
The boy was trembling.
Grace whispered:
“He's safe.”
I looked at her.
“No.”
She frowned.
“Not yet.”
I reached for her hand.
“This isn't about the explosion anymore.”
“What is it?”
“My family.”
I looked at Michael.
“And yours.”
She stared at me.
“What do you mean?”
I took the black cross from Michael.
Inside it was another photograph.
On the back was a message written in my mother's handwriting.
DOMINIC, IF YOU ARE READING THIS, TRUST THE NURSE.
I looked at Grace.
She stared back.
For the first time, fear appeared in her eyes.
“Why would your mother tell you to trust me?”
May you like
I didn't know.
But I intended to find out.
