Chapter 3 - FOUR NAMES, FOUR DIFFERENT HEARTS
The next morning, I met my sons.
Not as a man demanding answers.
Not as the head of the Moretti family.
Just as Alejandro.
I entered the nursery carrying a tray of breakfast.
Four little boys looked up.
Four identical faces.
Four different expressions.
The oldest-looking boy sat straight-backed beside the window.
The second was building a tower from wooden blocks.
The third was singing softly to a stuffed rabbit.
Mateo, the smallest, sat beside Elena holding Sofia's photograph.
I placed the tray on a low table.
“Good morning.”
Nobody answered.
Then the boy with the blocks asked, “Do you have pancakes?”
I looked at the tray.
“Eggs.”
He frowned.
“That's unfortunate.”
I almost laughed.
Elena covered her mouth.
“That's Gabriel,” she whispered.
Gabriel.
The name of my father.
The boy near the window was Luca.
Quiet.
Observant.
Protective of his brothers.
The one with the rabbit was Nico.
He loved music and asked questions about everything.
And Mateo was the youngest by four minutes.
He liked stars, warm blankets, and being held when thunderstorms came.
Four boys.
Four names.
Four separate little lives.
And I had missed every moment.
I sat on the carpet.
Gabriel approached first.
“Are you rich?”
Elena closed her eyes.
“Gabriel!”
I smiled faintly.
“I have more money than I need.”
He considered that.
“Then why don't you have pancakes?”
For the first time in five years, I laughed inside my own home.
Luca remained near the window.
He watched me carefully.
“Miss Elena says we shouldn't trust strangers.”
“She's right.”
“Then why are you here?”
I looked at him.
“Because this is my house.”
He frowned.
“That's not a good reason.”
I nodded.
“No. It isn't.”
He seemed surprised.
I continued.
“I think I might be your father.”
Silence.
Gabriel stopped chewing.
Nico lowered his rabbit.
Mateo looked at Sofia's photograph.
Luca stared.
“Fathers don't disappear,” he said.
The words hit me like a blow.
I swallowed.
“Sometimes they don't know where their children are.”
He looked away.
I didn't push.
Later, Elena told me the boys had been raised in a small house near Lake Geneva, Wisconsin.
She had lived with them and Teresa.
They used different surnames.
Moved twice.
Avoided photographs.
Never attended large public events.
For years, Elena had been terrified Lorenzo would discover them.
“Why bring them here?” I asked.
Her expression darkened.
“Because someone found our house.”
I stared.
“Who?”
“Men in a black SUV. They parked outside three nights in a row.”
She swallowed.
“Then a letter arrived.”
“What did it say?”
She handed me a folded sheet.
THE MORETTI HEIRS BELONG TO THE FAMILY.
Below it was a photograph.
Four boys playing in a garden.
Taken through a fence.
My stomach turned.
I looked at Elena.
“Why didn't you call me?”
She began crying.
“Because Sofia made me promise.”
I glanced at the photograph.
Keep them safe from Alejandro.
“What did she think I would do?”
Elena hesitated.
Then whispered:
“She thought you had ordered the crash.”
I stared.
For several seconds, I couldn't breathe.
Then I said:
“Who told her that?”
May you like
Elena looked toward the floor.
“Your brother.”
