Chapter 3 - The Missing Surgical Report
My mother cried for almost twenty minutes before she could speak.
I sat across from her.
I did not interrupt.
Eventually, she looked at me.
"Your father was Lorenzo Moretti."
The name settled between us.
Lorenzo Moretti.
The late head of Chicago's most notorious crime family.
Mateo's father.
My father.
I stared at the woman who had raised me.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
She looked down.
"Because I was afraid."
"Of him?"
"Of the people around him."
My hands trembled.
She explained that Lorenzo had acknowledged me privately after I was born. He provided support and allowed me to use his surname, but kept my existence outside his public family life.
My mother refused to accept a life hidden inside his organization.
She raised me in a small apartment, worked long hours, and encouraged me to build my own future.
When I was sixteen, Lorenzo died.
Within weeks, my mother received a threat.
Someone warned her that a newly discovered daughter could complicate the family's inheritance.
Then came news of Mateo's accident.
And a report that a teenage relative had also died.
My mother realized someone was using my identity in a story she didn't understand.
So she took me away.
We moved to Wisconsin.
Later, we returned to Illinois under carefully managed circumstances.
I eventually began coaching in Chicago.
My mother never stopped worrying.
---
The next morning, I contacted an independent attorney, Rebecca Shaw.
I wanted records.
Not rumors.
Not threats.
Records.
Rebecca requested lawful access to relevant family and medical documents.
Meanwhile, Mateo obtained a fresh medical evaluation from a hospital team unaffiliated with Dr. Bellini.
He had to authorize the release of his records himself.
To everyone's surprise, several documents were missing.
The original operative report.
A complete discharge summary.
Certain early imaging records.
A rehabilitation assessment from the first months after the crash.
There were later records describing chronic pain.
Years of prescriptions.
Repeated consultations.
But the first crucial weeks were incomplete.
Mateo called me.
"Gia."
Hearing him say my name made my stomach tighten.
"Yes?"
"My surgeon says the records don't make sense."
I closed my eyes.
"That doesn't necessarily mean someone hurt you deliberately."
"I know."
"Promise me you won't jump to conclusions."
A long silence followed.
Then he answered.
"I'll let the evidence lead."
It was the first sensible thing I'd heard from a mafia boss.
---
Mateo underwent a comprehensive evaluation.
His symptoms had physical and psychological components that needed separate, careful assessment.
He had severe muscular compensation.
Restricted movement.
Possible neurological involvement.
And a long history of medication use that required specialist review.
The doctors did not promise a cure.
They discussed imaging, nerve assessment, rehabilitation, and the need to evaluate the medications he'd been prescribed.
I sat outside the examination room with Leo.
He was unusually quiet.
Then he whispered, "Do you think Dad will ever sleep normally?"
I looked at him.
"I don't know."
He nodded.
I continued.
"But now people are asking questions nobody asked before."
Leo stared at the floor.
"He's been hurting my whole life."
My heart tightened.
I knew what it felt like to watch a parent carry pain they refused to explain.
I put a hand on his shoulder.
"Then he deserves a chance to understand it."
---
That afternoon, Rebecca called.
She had located an old public death record connected to the accident.
A sixteen-year-old girl named Gia Moretti was listed among the presumed fatalities in a supplemental incident file.
There was no corresponding verified identification record in the materials she'd obtained.
I stared at the wall.
"Someone declared me dead?"
"That's what the paperwork indicates."
"Why?"
"We don't know yet."
I lowered the phone.
May you like
For twelve years, the world of the Moretti family had contained a dead girl who was actually alive.
And somebody had wanted her to stay that way.
