Chapter 5 - THE MAN INSIDE MY HOUSE
Marco Moretti was family.
That meant very little after Sofia.
He had worked beside me for thirteen years.
Handled legitimate accounts.
Corporate acquisitions.
Tax structures.
Trust distributions.
He knew more about my money than anyone alive.
Including me.
That was the problem.
Angela ordered a quiet forensic audit.
I told no one except her and Elena.
Not even my security chief.
Two days later, we found it.
Payments.
Small.
Clean.
Spread across charities, consulting firms, and custodial accounts.
Money routed toward private investigators in Canada.
Medical-data brokers.
Travel records.
A pediatric clinic outside Montreal.
Marco had been searching for the boys.
Not for two years.
For nearly four.
“What did he know?” I asked.
Angela turned the laptop.
“He knew Sofia was alive after her funeral.”
I stopped breathing.
“How?”
“One payment went to the hospice network where she died.”
Marco knew before I did.
He knew my wife survived.
Knew she later died.
Knew there were children.
And he never told me.
Why?
The answer sat inside a trust amendment draft.
Not executed.
But prepared.
If my direct heirs could not be located, temporary control over my holdings in the event of my incapacity would shift to—
Marco.
Not Vittorio.
Sofia had focused on the obvious rival.
The uncle openly angry about succession.
She had missed the quiet cousin with spreadsheets.
That was the real danger.
Marco did not need my sons dead.
He needed them legally invisible.
Missing.
Unrecognized.
Unproven.
If I died without officially acknowledging them, he had a path to control.
The next morning, Marco entered my office smiling.
“Big week?”
“Yes.”
“I hear the house has guests.”
I looked at him.
“Four.”
His smile barely changed.
“Children?”
“Yes.”
“What kind of children?”
The question was wrong.
I leaned back.
“My kind.”
That did it.
One flicker.
Then gone.
Marco smiled.
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
“Who’s the mother?”
“Sofia.”
Silence.
The smallest silence imaginable.
But enough.
“Impossible.”
“DNA disagrees.”
He sat.
“That’s extraordinary.”
“Yes.”
“What happens with the trust?”
There.
Not:
How are they?
Not:
How did Sofia do this?
Not:
Are they healthy?
The trust.
I smiled.
“We’re reviewing.”
He nodded.
“Of course.”
Then:
“If you need me to coordinate—”
“No.”
His expression shifted.
“Angela is handling everything.”
“I’m CFO.”
“This is personal.”
“Alejandro—”
“Personal.”
He left.
That afternoon, he attempted to access an old archive folder connected to Sofia.
The system logged it.
By evening, Angela had enough to seek court orders freezing certain trust movements and preserving evidence.
Still, I did not confront Marco.
Old me would have.
Cornered him.
Forced truth.
Maybe threatened worse.
But I had four boys upstairs learning which cereal they liked.
I needed a future more than I needed a satisfying confrontation.
So I let the records close around him.
Slowly.
Legally.
May you like
Completely.
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