Chapter 8 - THE NIGHT THE BABY CAME EARLY
The plan had three parts. None of them survived contact with reality. At 10:40 p.m., Roman’s legal team filed emergency digital instruments transferring controlling shares of the Moretti legacy companies into a public-benefit holding structure. The criminal-era trusts tied to bloodline succession would become legally useless the moment the documents were countersigned by our outside fiduciary.
At 10:52, Salvatore learned what we were doing. At 10:55, St. Catherine’s church lost power. At 11:01, Vivian stopped answering her phone. I left for the church with Roman and eight men. Grace remained in an armored SUV two blocks away with Dr. Patel, two guards, and Meredith—who had volunteered to stay because Sal would expect her near me.
Snow had begun mixing with the rain. St. Catherine’s rose from the dark like the skeleton of an old promise. Scaffolding surrounded the bell tower. Plastic sheeting flapped in the wind. Inside, the pews had been removed for restoration, leaving a vast stone nave lit only by work lamps. My mother knelt near the altar.
Salvatore stood behind her with a pistol. He looked older than the last time I had seen him, but not weaker. His silver hair was combed neatly. His overcoat was dry despite the storm, which meant he had entered through the underground passage connecting the rectory. “Ethan,” he said warmly. As if this were dinner.
“Let her go.” “Family reunions used to be more civilized.” “You killed my father.” His smile faded. “Your father killed himself with ideals.” There are confessions that come with shouting. Sal’s came with disappointment. “Dominic wanted to turn wolves into accountants,” he said. “He thought legitimacy would save us. It would have made us vulnerable.”
“So you murdered your brother.” “I preserved what he was destroying.” Vivian closed her eyes. “Tell him the rest,” she said. Sal glanced down. “Be quiet.” “The restaurant,” she continued. “Tell him who pulled the trigger.” Sal’s jaw tightened. I understood. “You did it yourself.” “No,” Vivian said. Sal looked at her with hatred. She raised her eyes to mine.
“I did.” The church disappeared around me. “What?” “I shot your father.” My chest stopped. Roman whispered, “Jesus.” Vivian’s voice shook. “Sal arranged the ambush. Dominic found out. He called me to the restaurant before the meeting because he thought I was the only person he could trust. Sal’s men came through the kitchen. Your father was already wounded. He gave me the gun.”
I stared at her. “He asked me not to let Sal take him alive.” Sal laughed. “She’s turning mercy into sainthood.” Vivian ignored him. “Dominic knew Sal would torture him for access codes and names. He told me to end it.” Her eyes filled with tears I had almost never seen. “I did.” For fifteen years, my mother had carried the final gunshot.
Not the conspiracy. But the last bullet. “I hated Luca for it,” I said. “I know.” “I built my life around a lie.” “I know.” Sal shifted the pistol. “That’s enough.” Roman moved. A shot cracked. Stone exploded beside us. Then everything happened at once. My men fired from the side aisle. Sal dragged Vivian behind a column. Work lights shattered. The church plunged into intermittent darkness.
I moved toward the altar. Sal fired again. Vivian twisted. The bullet struck her shoulder. She fell. I reached Sal near the sacristy door. We hit the stone floor together. He was sixty-two, but desperation made him fast. He drove the pistol toward my ribs. I trapped his wrist. He punched my throat. I saw black for half a second.
Then I heard my phone ringing inside my coat. Grace. The distraction almost killed me. Sal smiled. “Your weakness.” I looked at him. “No.” I broke his wrist. “The reason I stop.” Roman reached us and kicked the weapon away. We took Sal alive. That mattered. It was the first decision in my adult life my father would have recognized.
My phone kept ringing. I answered. Dr. Patel’s voice exploded through the speaker. “Her water broke.” Every drop of blood drained from my face. “What?” “Grace is in labor.” “Thirty-two weeks?” “Yes, Ethan. The baby is coming.” I looked at Vivian bleeding on the church floor. Roman pressed gauze to her shoulder. “Go,” she said.
I froze. “Go to her.” Roman nodded. “I’ve got this.” I ran. The armored SUV was already moving toward Northwestern Memorial when I reached the street. One of our cars picked me up. We crossed the city through freezing rain with police escorts Roman arranged through legitimate channels for once. Grace was taken into labor and delivery.
May you like
I arrived as nurses rushed her toward an operating room. She saw me. “Ethan!” I caught her hand. “I’m here.” “I’m scared.” So was I. More than I had ever been. “You’re not alone.” She squeezed my fingers. “Don’t lie to me again.” “I won’t.” “Even to protect me.” “I won’t.” A contraction hit. She cried out.
The doors opened. A nurse tried to separate us. Grace would not let go. “Are you the father?” I looked at Grace. She nodded. “Yes,” I said. The word felt different now. Not ownership. Not bloodline. Responsibility. They gave me scrubs. Forty-three minutes later, beneath white surgical lights while thunder rolled somewhere beyond the hospital windows, our son entered the world too early, furious and tiny, with a cry sharp enough to split my heart in half. Then the cry stopped. Doctors moved. Machines sounded. Grace sobbed. I stood beside her, powerless. And for the first time in my life, no amount of money, violence, loyalty, or fear could make the next second obey me.
