Chapter 2 - THE WIFE I BURIED
Vittorio did not enter the property.
He sent a message instead.
We need to talk about Sofia’s children.
I read it twice.
Then deleted nothing.
That surprised my men.
For years, certain problems were handled quietly.
But children changed the rules.
If Vittorio knew about the boys, then secrecy had already failed.
I needed records.
Witnesses.
Proof.
Elena sat across from me in Sofia’s old sitting room while the boys slept upstairs.
“Start at the beginning.”
She nodded.
“Sofia discovered she was sick six years ago.”
“I know.”
Cancer.
Rare.
Aggressive.
What I did not know was that before treatment began, she had preserved embryos.
“Ours?”
“Yes.”
I stared at Elena.
“Sofia never told me.”
“She intended to.”
“Why didn’t she?”
“Because that same month she found out Vittorio had been asking questions about your estate.”
My jaw tightened.
“What kind of questions?”
“Inheritance. Succession. Whether a child conceived before your death but born afterward would qualify as an heir.”
I became still.
That was not curiosity.
That was planning.
Elena continued.
“Sofia thought he was preparing for your death.”
“She told no one?”
“She told your attorney, Mr. Bellini.”
Bellini had died three years earlier.
Convenient for secrets.
“Then what?”
“Sofia’s treatment failed.”
I looked away.
That part I remembered.
Hospitals.
Hair loss.
Hope becoming arithmetic.
Then the night she supposedly died.
Car accident.
Vehicle burned.
Body identified through dental records.
I had never seen her face.
They told me not to.
I listened because grief makes cowards of people in strange ways.
Elena continued.
“The woman in the car wasn’t Sofia.”
I looked back at her.
“Who was it?”
“A patient from a charitable care home.”
My expression changed.
Elena quickly added:
“She had died earlier that day. No one killed her for this.”
That mattered.
“Sofia and Bellini arranged a false identity trail.”
“Why?”
“To convince Vittorio she was gone.”
“And me.”
“Yes.”
That word hurt.
More than I expected.
“She let me believe she was dead.”
“She believed telling you would put you in danger.”
“I was already in danger.”
“She knew.”
Elena’s voice softened.
“But she also knew you.”
I stared.
“She believed if you knew she was alive, you would move heaven and earth to reach her.”
“She was right.”
“And Vittorio would follow.”
Silence.
“So she disappeared.”
“Yes.”
“With the embryos?”
“No. They were moved separately.”
“Where?”
“A clinic in Canada.”
I almost laughed from disbelief.
“Canada.”
“Yes.”
Then the impossible part.
One embryo was later transferred to a surrogate Sofia trusted.
The embryo split.
Then split again.
Four genetically identical boys.
Mateo.
Nico.
Luca.
Gabriel.
My sons.
My knees felt unsteady, so I sat.
“Where was Sofia?”
“Living under another name near Montreal.”
“Was she with them?”
“For six months.”
My throat tightened.
“She met them?”
“Yes.”
“Held them?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t she come home after they were born?”
Elena started crying.
“Because she was dying.”
I closed my eyes.
The cancer returned.
Metastatic.
Aggressive.
This time she had months.
“She knew she couldn’t survive long enough to protect them.”
“Why not send for me?”
“Because by then Bellini had confirmed Vittorio was moving money, bribing people, preparing documents that would challenge any Moretti heir.”
“What documents?”
“A succession trust.”
I looked at Elena.
“What trust?”
“Your grandfather’s.”
I knew the trust.
Old family holdings.
Land.
Voting rights.
Legitimate companies built after years of uglier work.
It contained one clause nearly nobody discussed:
If I died without recognized descendants, controlling shares moved to Vittorio’s branch.
If I had children, they remained in my direct line.
Now everything made sense.
Vittorio had not been hunting children.
He had been hunting obstacles.
I looked toward the photograph.
“Why write ‘Keep them safe from Alejandro’?”
Elena wiped her face.
“Because Sofia knew Vittorio’s people searched anything connected to her.”
“She wrote a lie.”
“A protective one.”
“That makes no sense.”
“It does if someone finds the photograph.”
I stared.
“Anyone reading it would assume you were the danger.”
“Exactly.”
“And stop looking at Vittorio.”
Elena nodded.
Sofia had used my reputation as camouflage.
The cruelest joke imaginable.
The city feared me.
My dead wife weaponized that fear to protect my children.
I almost smiled.
Almost.
Then I asked the only question that mattered.
“Where did she die?”
Elena lowered her eyes.
“Not in Canada.”
I waited.
“She came back to Chicago.”
My chest tightened.
“When?”
“Four years ago.”
I stood.
“That’s impossible.”
“She knew she had days.”
“Where?”
Elena looked toward the dining room.
“Here.”
I stopped breathing.
“In this house?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“One night you were in New York.”
I stared at her.
“You brought my dying wife into my house while I was away?”
“She asked me to.”
“Where did she sleep?”
Elena began crying again.
“In your bed.”
Everything inside me went quiet.
Sofia had returned to our home.
Slept in our room.
Maybe touched my clothes.
Walked through the dining room.
Then left before I returned.
“Why?”
“She wanted to see home once.”
“And the boys?”
“Too young to travel.”
I pressed my hands against the table.
“Where did she die?”
“In a private hospice outside Milwaukee.”
I looked at Elena.
“Is there a grave?”
“Yes.”
“Name?”
“Elena Marquez.”
I almost laughed.
My housekeeper’s first name.
“She used yours?”
Elena nodded.
“So no one would connect her.”
I looked toward the ceiling.
My sons slept upstairs.
My wife lay buried under another woman’s name.
And my uncle waited outside the gate.
I realized then that the past five years were not grief.
May you like
They were a crime scene made of secrets.
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