Chapter 5 - THE FIRST LIE MY FATHER TOLD
Mara Quinn called two days later.
“I found Saint Agnes.”
I stood so quickly my chair struck the wall.
“Where?”
“Outside Albany. The original property was sold through several holding companies after the institution closed.”
“Who owns it now?”
She hesitated.
“A private healthcare management company.”
My jaw tightened.
“Name.”
“Northbridge Recovery Services.”
I knew it.
Vincent had approved payments to Northbridge for years.
He claimed the company provided rehabilitation services for injured workers.
I never questioned it.
Mara continued.
“The facility has operated under different names. There are serious gaps in the public records.”
I closed my eyes.
“Can you get inside?”
“Not without a lawful basis. But I can continue investigating.”
“Do it.”
That afternoon, I visited my father's grave.
Salvatore Moretti had been dead for nine years.
Even in death, his name carried weight.
I stood before the marble headstone.
For most of my life, I'd believed my father was ruthless but loyal to family.
Now I wasn't sure.
I remembered Matteo confronting him at dinner.
“You know what's happening at Saint Agnes.”
My father slammed his fist against the table.
“Enough.”
Matteo stood.
“Those children deserve better.”
My father pointed toward the door.
“Then leave my house.”
Matteo did.
I followed him into the garden.
He looked at me.
“Luca, you can't keep pretending.”
“Pretending what?”
“That Dad's business doesn't hurt innocent people.”
I grabbed his arm.
“Watch your mouth.”
He pulled away.
“One day you'll have to choose.”
I laughed bitterly.
“Between what?”
He looked directly at me.
“Being his son and being a decent man.”
Seventeen years later, I stood at my father's grave and understood that Matteo had been asking the right question.
I just hadn't wanted to hear it.
When I returned to the mansion, Elena was waiting in the library.
She held a small notebook.
“Thomas kept this hidden.”
I opened it.
The pages contained dates, initials, payment references, and names.
One name appeared repeatedly.
V. Caruso.
Another appeared beside it.
D. Rourke.
And near the final page was a third name.
S. Moretti.
My father.
I stared.
Elena whispered:
“Your father may have known.”
I closed the notebook.
May you like
Then said:
“I think he did.”
