Chapter 11 - THE BAKER’S BROTHER
I stared at the thick envelope on the wrought-iron table.
“A brother?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. “My grandfather never mentioned a brother. He told me he was an only child.”
“In our world, Sophia,” Lucia said gently, “sometimes people erase their families to keep them safe.”
I picked up the envelope. The wax seal wasn't a crest or a family initial. It was an imprint of a wheat sheaf—the universal symbol of a baker. I broke the seal and pulled out a single sheet of heavy parchment.
The letter was written in flawless, elegant Italian.
My Dearest Niece,
If you are reading this, it means you have unlocked the Palermo trust and severed the chains of the Moretti family. Your grandfather and I planned for this day for thirty years. We knew Antonio Moretti would never let your father walk away peacefully.
Your grandfather chose to live quietly in Chicago to keep an eye on you. I chose to stay in Naples to manage the real family business. The money you unlocked in Palermo was just the insurance policy.
It is time you learned what your family truly built.
I am hosting a dinner on Friday. A car will be waiting for you and Lucia at the docks.
With love and respect,Don Vincenzo.
I dropped the letter onto the table.
My head spun. Don Vincenzo. That title wasn't used for bakers.
“Nonna,” I breathed, looking at her wide-eyed. “My grandfather’s brother… he’s a Don?”
Lucia read the letter quickly, her eyebrows raising in shock. She let out a sudden, delighted laugh.
“Oh, your grandfather was a brilliant man,” Lucia chuckled, tapping the paper. “Do you understand what this means, Sophia? Your father didn't just hide money from the Morettis. He hid it with the backing of the Neapolitan syndicate.”
“My family is in the mafia?” The idea was absurd. My grandfather had worn flour-dusted aprons and smelled of yeast.
“Not the mafia,” Lucia corrected, her eyes gleaming with respect. “The Camorra. The oldest, most deeply rooted syndicate in Naples. And it seems your great-uncle is sitting at the head of the table.”
I looked at the bracelet on my wrist and the rosary resting against my chest. Everything had been a test. The journal, the coordinates, the passwords. It was a trail of breadcrumbs left by my grandfather to ensure I was smart enough, and strong enough, to survive the Morettis before claiming my true inheritance.
“Are we going?” Lucia asked, taking a sip of her espresso.
I looked out at the beautiful, peaceful garden I had just bought. I had finally escaped the violence and manipulation of Chicago. I had found peace.
May you like
But I also knew that peace in this country required power.
“Yes,” I said, folding the letter. “We’re going to Naples.”
