Chapter 4 - THE BASTARD SON
The room spun. I reached out, gripping the edge of the dresser to keep from collapsing.
“Your father?” I repeated, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. “Giovanni Moretti is Andrew’s biological father?”
Nicholas stared at the letter, his jaw clenched so tightly a muscle twitched in his cheek.
“My father had an affair thirty-five years ago,” Nicholas said quietly, his voice tightly controlled. “Before I was born. My mother knew about it, but she stayed. The woman he slept with was a secretary at one of his legitimate shipping firms.”
He looked at me, his eyes softening slightly with sympathy.
“Her name was Carol.”
My mother.
My sweet, quiet, unassuming mother had an affair with the most powerful mafia boss in Chicago. She had gotten pregnant. And she had given the baby away.
“But the birth certificate says Richard Bennett is the father,” I pointed out, my voice trembling.
“Because Richard stepped in to save her reputation,” Nicholas said, piecing the history together. “Richard claimed the child to protect Carol from my father’s enemies. But they gave the boy up because raising a Moretti bastard would have put a target on all their backs.”
It all made terrifying sense.
Andrew wasn't my biological brother. I was Richard Bennett’s daughter. Andrew was Giovanni Moretti’s son.
We weren't related by blood.
But Andrew had discovered the truth. He had found out he was the bastard son of a mafia kingpin. And instead of claiming his birthright, he had panicked. He knew that if the Moretti family found out he existed, Nicholas might view him as a threat.
“He didn't just want to silence your mother to protect his career,” Nicholas said, his eyes hardening into obsidian. “He wanted to silence her because he was terrified I would kill him if I found out who he was.”
Nicholas crushed his father’s letter in his fist.
“And he was absolutely right.”
Suddenly, Nicholas’s radio crackled.
“Boss,” Marco’s voice came through, urgent and sharp. “We found the car. The security footage from the facility matched a black Lincoln Town Car.”
“Where is it heading?” Nicholas demanded.
“It’s not heading anywhere, Boss. It just pulled into your private estate.”
Nicholas froze.
“My estate? Who authorized the gate?”
“The driver did, sir. It’s Silvio.”
Silvio. Giovanni Moretti’s old Consigliere. The man who had served Nicholas’s father for forty years, and who now served Nicholas.
“Silvio took her?” I asked, panic surging again.
“He didn't take her,” Nicholas said, turning toward the door. “He rescued her. That letter my father wrote... the emergency number at the bottom. My mother called Silvio.”
Relief, sharp and overwhelming, crashed over me. My mother was safe. She was with Nicholas’s most trusted man.
“We’re going home,” Nicholas said, grabbing my hand.
His grip was firm, warm, and unapologetically protective.
For the first time all night, I didn't feel like I was drowning.
We sped toward the Moretti estate, a sprawling, heavily fortified mansion on the outskirts of the city.
When we pulled through the massive iron gates, I saw a black Lincoln parked near the front steps.
I didn't wait for the SUV to fully stop. I threw the door open and scrambled out.
“Mom!” I yelled, running up the stone steps.
The heavy oak doors opened.
Silvio, an older man with silver hair and a sharp, tailored suit, stepped aside.
Sitting in a wheelchair in the grand foyer, wrapped in a thick wool blanket, was my mother.
“Sarah!” she cried, her frail arms reaching out.
I dropped to my knees in front of her, burying my face in her lap, sobbing uncontrollably.
“Mom, I’m so sorry,” I wept. “I’m so sorry I let him take you.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” she whispered, stroking my hair with her trembling, good hand. “You didn't let him do anything. I went willingly to protect you.”
Nicholas walked into the foyer. He didn't interrupt us. He stood near the door, watching with a quiet, fierce intensity.
I pulled back, looking up at my mother’s tired, tear-stained face.
“I know the truth, Mom,” I said softly. “I found the shoes. I know about Andrew. I know about Giovanni.”
My mother closed her eyes, a single tear slipping down her cheek.
“I was so ashamed, Sarah,” she whispered. “I didn't want you to know what I had done. When Andrew came to me six months ago with the DNA test... I thought I was going to die.”
“He knew he wasn't my brother,” I said. “He knew he was a Moretti.”
My mother nodded weakly. “He wanted money. He wanted to run away and start a new life before the Moretti family found out he existed. When I refused to pay him... he threatened to tell everyone.”
She looked up at Nicholas.
“He said your son would kill us all if he knew.”
Nicholas stepped forward. The intimidating aura of the mafia boss seemed to vanish, replaced by the deep, respectful sorrow of a man who understood family trauma better than anyone.
He knelt beside me, placing his hand gently on my mother’s wheelchair.
“Carol,” Nicholas said, his voice surprisingly gentle. “My father loved you. I found his journals after he died. He never stopped regretting that he couldn't protect you or the boy.”
My mother gasped, covering her mouth as she began to weep.
“And I swear to you on my father’s grave,” Nicholas continued, “Andrew Collins will never threaten you or your daughter again. You are under my protection now.”
He stood up, looking at Silvio.
“Set up the guest suite,” Nicholas ordered. “And get a doctor here immediately to check her vitals.”
“Right away, Boss,” Silvio said.
As my mother was wheeled away by the staff, I stood up, wiping my eyes.
I looked at Nicholas.
“Thank you,” I whispered, overwhelmed by the magnitude of what he had just done for me.
“You don't have to thank me, Sarah,” Nicholas said, stepping closer.
He reached out, his thumb gently wiping a stray tear from my cheek. The contact sent a warm shiver straight down my spine.
“I told you in the restaurant,” Nicholas murmured, his dark eyes locking onto mine. “You are safe here.”
But the quiet moment was shattered by Marco rushing into the foyer.
“Boss,” Marco said, his voice tight. “We have a problem at the warehouse.”
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Nicholas didn't take his eyes off me. “What is it?”
“It’s Andrew,” Marco said. “He’s dead.”
