Chapter 8 - The Last Words of Vincent Moretti
The private cemetery of the Moretti family sat on a secluded hill overlooking the western valley.
Wrought-iron gates twenty feet high guarded the perimeter.
Ancient weeping willows bowed under the weight of the endless rain.
At three-thirty in the morning, Damian Moretti stepped through the bronze double doors of the family mausoleum.
The interior was carved out of solid Carrara marble.
The air was frigid, smelling of damp limestone and undisturbed centuries.
Along the south wall lay the sarcophagus of his grandfather.
In the center, bathed in the faint glow of an eternal amber flame, was the tomb of Vincent Moretti.
Damian walked slowly across the mosaic floor until he stood before his father’s resting place.
The carved Latin inscription read:
VINCENT MORETTI. PROTECTOR OF THE BLOOD. MASTER OF THE SHADOWS.
Damian reached out and touched the cold marble slab.
"You knew, didn't you?"
He whispered into the empty vault.
"You knew that when your heart failed, the jackals would come for the women you loved."
Damian knelt down at the base of the sarcophagus.
Behind the decorative bronze relief of the family crest was a small, concealed keyhole.
It was not a modern digital keypad.
It was an antique five-tumbler mechanical lock that required a heavy brass key.
Damian reached inside his sweater and pulled a brass key that he had worn around his neck since his sixteenth birthday.
His father had given it to him on his deathbed with a single cryptic command:
Only turn this when the girl comes home.
For nineteen years, Damian had assumed his father was delirious with fever when he spoke those words.
He had believed the girl was already ash on Route 9.
Damian inserted the key into the bronze crest and turned it clockwise.
A heavy mechanical clunk echoed through the hollow stone of the vault.
A square panel of polished marble slid back six inches, revealing an airtight steel compartment.
Inside rested a leather-bound portfolio wrapped in oilcloth, sealed with red wax.
Beside the portfolio lay a velvet jewelry box.
Damian pulled the oilcloth package out into the dim light.
He broke the red wax seal with his thumb.
The parchment inside was yellowed with age, but the ink was crisp, black, and unmistakable.
It was the original last will and testament of Vincent Moretti, witnessed by the Roman Catholic bishop of the diocese and two federal judges.
The terms were clear, brutal, and unchallengeable.
TO MY SON, DAMIAN: I LEAVE THE RESPONSIBILITY OF THE SWORD. YOU SHALL LEAD OUR MEN AND DEFEND OUR GATES.
TO MY LAWFUL WIFE, MARIA ROSSI MORETTI, AND OUR DAUGHTER, ISABELLA: I LEAVE SIXTY PERCENT OF THE VOTING STOCK OF MORETTI MARITIME AND ALL PROPERTY ATTACHED THERETO.
SHOULD ANY TRUSTEE ATTEMPT TO ALTER THIS DIVISION WITHOUT THE DIRECT CONSENT OF MARIA OR ISABELLA, ALL POWERS OF ATTORNEY HELD BY CHARLES MORETTI AND HIS HEIRS SHALL BE VOIDED INSTANTLY UNDER CLAUSE 12.
Damian opened the velvet jewelry box.
Inside sat a second silver phoenix pendant, identical in size and craftsmanship to the one Isabella wore around her neck.
When placed together, the two pendants formed a complete crest—the seal of the Moretti bloodline.
Damian closed his fist over the silver metal.
"You thought of everything, old man."
"You knew Charles would try to burn the paper records in the house."
"You knew the only place he would never dare to dig was your own grave."
Damian tucked the portfolio and the silver crest inside his coat.
He turned his back on the marble tomb and walked out into the misty dawn.
The horizon was beginning to crack with thin, pale streaks of grey light.
It was five-thirty in the morning.
In three and a half hours, the board would convene.
Julian Moretti would be dressed in his finest designer suit, ready to celebrate his corporate coronation.
Charles Moretti would be holding his pen, ready to sign the document that would seal Isabella’s murder into history.
Damian entered his car and slammed the door.
May you like
"To the penthouse," he told the driver.
"The heiress needs to get dressed."
