The Sins We Inherit

PROLOGUE PT. 2

VINCENT

Age Thirty-Six

There are very few things in this world that frighten me.

Death isn't one of them.

I've looked it in the face more times than I care to count.

I've watched men beg for their lives.

I've buried friends.

I've buried enemies.

I've built an empire on the understanding that fear is a weakness other people can exploit.

But when my younger brother walks into my office with a phone pressed against his ear and an expression I've never seen on his face before, I feel something cold settle in my stomach.

"Vincent," Salvatore says, his voice strained.

I look up from the paperwork spread across my desk.

He's standing in the doorway.

Pale.

My brother is not a pale man.

"What?" I ask sharply.

He doesn't answer immediately.

And that alone is enough to make me stand.

"Sal," I repeat, my voice hardening.

He swallows.

"It's Mary," he says quietly.

The room goes silent.

"What about Mary?" I demand, moving around my desk.

He takes a step closer.

"She called me. She said someone was following her," he explains urgently.

My heart stops.

"What?" I ask, my voice dropping dangerously low.

"She was on the parkway. She said there was a black SUV behind her."

I reach for my phone.

"Where is she?" I demand.

"Vincent..."

"Where the f**k is my wife?" I roar, slamming my hand against the desk.

Sal's jaw tightens.

"The call dropped," he answers grimly.

For a second, I don't understand the words.

The call dropped.

That's all.

Phones lose service.

It happens every day.

Mary probably drove through a bad area.

Maybe her battery died.

Maybe she's already home.

I grab my jacket.

"Get the cars," I order, my voice clipped and forceful.

"Vincent," Sal begins cautiously.

"I SAID GET THE f*****g CARS!" I thunder, my fist striking the desk hard enough to send a glass tumbling to the floor.

Sal moves immediately.

I follow him out of the office, already dialing Mary's number.

It rings.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Voicemail.

I hang up and call again.

Voicemail.

Again.

Voicemail.

My hand tightens around the phone.

"Come on, baby," I mutter desperately. "Pick up the f*****g phone."

Nothing.

I call her again.

And again.

By the time we reach the cars, I've called her eleven times.

She hasn't answered once.

The drive is a blur.

Sal sits beside me, speaking into his phone while our driver tears through the streets.

I barely hear him.

All I can think about is Mary.

My Mary.

The woman who walked into my life when I was twenty-two and proceeded to turn everything upside down.

She was never afraid of me.

Not once.

The first time we met, she told me I was arrogant.

I told her she was beautiful.

She told me those two things weren't mutually exclusive.

I fell in love with her that night.

It took me six months to convince her to go on a date.

Another year to convince her to marry me.

And every day since, I've thanked God she said yes.

She's the only person in the world who can tell me to shut up and actually make me listen.

The only person who can walk into my office while I'm furious and make me forget why I was angry.

The only person who has ever looked at Vincent Moretti and seen something other than the man everyone fears.

She sees me.

Just me.

And now she's not answering her f*****g phone.

"Vincent," Sal says solemnly, interrupting my thoughts.

I turn sharply.

"What?"

He lowers his phone.

His expression changes.

And suddenly, I know.

Before he says a word.

Before he opens his mouth.

I know.

"They found the car," he says quietly.

My chest tightens.

"Where?" I demand.

"Off the parkway. Near the southbound exit."

I lean forward.

"Is she hurt?" I ask, my voice growing unsteady despite my efforts to control it.

Sal doesn't answer.

"Salvatore," I warn, fixing him with a desperate stare.

"They're taking them to the hospital," he replies carefully.

Them.

Not her.

Them.

My daughter.

My six-year-old daughter.

"Valerie?" I ask hoarsely.

Sal nods.

"She's alive," he assures me quickly.

The words barely register.

"Mary?" I whisper.

He looks away.

I grab his jacket.

"LOOK AT ME!" I shout with such force that the driver glances into the rearview mirror.

Sal turns back.

His eyes are wet.

And my entire world collapses.

I've never believed in God.

Not really.

My mother raised us Catholic.

We went to church every Sunday.

I was baptized, confirmed, married beneath the watchful eyes of saints whose names I've long forgotten.

But faith has always seemed like a luxury for men who don't know how the world really works.

Still, as I walk through the hospital doors, I find myself praying.

Please.

Please let her be alive.

Take anything else.

Everything else.

Just not her.

A doctor approaches.

He's older.

Gray hair.

Wire-rimmed glasses.

He looks nervous.

Good.

He should be.

"Mr. Moretti?" he asks cautiously.

"Where's my wife?" I demand, barely stopping in front of him.

He hesitates.

And I hate him for it.

"Sir, perhaps we should speak somewhere private," he suggests gently.

I step closer.

"Where. Is. My. Wife?" I repeat, enunciating every word with barely restrained fury.

His eyes flick toward Sal.

Then back to me.

"I'm very sorry," he says solemnly.

Three words.

Three f*****g words.

And suddenly, I can't breathe.

"No," I whisper.

"Mr. Moretti..."

"No," I repeat more forcefully, shaking my head.

He's wrong.

He has to be wrong.

Mary is thirty-four years old.

She's healthy.

She's beautiful.

She was laughing with me this morning because I burned the toast.

She kissed me before she left.

She told me she'd be home in time for dinner.

She promised Valerie they could call Vinny tonight.

She can't be dead.

Not my Mary.

"You're mistaken," I say firmly, my voice trembling with disbelief.

The doctor swallows.

"Sir, we did everything we could," he explains, his expression filled with sympathy.

I stare at him.

Then I laugh.

A terrible sound.

One I don't recognize as my own.

"Everything?" I repeat bitterly.

He doesn't answer.

I step closer.

"Everything?" I demand, my voice rising.

Sal grabs my arm.

"Vincent," he says firmly, trying to pull me back.

I shove him away.

"My wife is thirty-four years old!" I shout, my voice echoing through the hallway.

The doctor takes a step back.

"Mr. Moretti..."

"She has two children!" I roar.

My voice cracks.

Two children.

Our children.

Our little boy.

Our baby girl.

And she's gone.

Just like that.

Gone.

I don't remember falling to my knees.

But suddenly, I'm on the floor.

And Sal is beside me.

And I can't breathe.

I can't f*****g breathe.

I don't know how much time passes before someone tells me Valerie is awake.

My daughter.

My little girl.

The only piece of Mary I have left.

I stand so quickly the chair behind me crashes to the floor.

"Where?" I demand urgently.

The nurse gestures toward the hallway.

"She's in pediatric intensive care. She's stable, but..." she begins cautiously.

I don't hear the rest.

I'm already moving.

When I reach her room, I stop in the doorway.

And something inside me breaks all over again.

She's so small.

So f*****g small.

Bandages cover part of her forehead.

There's a bruise along her cheek.

Her left arm is wrapped.

A machine beeps beside her bed.

And her little stuffed rabbit is lying on the pillow.

Mr. Buttons.

Vinny gave it to her before he left for Italy.

I remember Mary laughing when Valerie insisted on bringing it everywhere.

I grip the doorframe.

For the first time in my life, I'm afraid to walk into a room.

"Papa?" Valerie whispers weakly.

Her voice is tiny.

Broken.

I move.

I'm beside her before I realize I've crossed the room.

"Baby," I breathe, my voice breaking as I reach for her.

Her eyes fill with tears.

"Papa," she sobs.

I sit carefully on the edge of the bed.

She reaches for me with her uninjured arm.

I gather her against my chest as gently as I can.

And she starts crying.

Real crying.

The kind that comes from somewhere deep inside a child who has seen something no child should ever see.

"Papa, Mama won't wake up," she cries, clutching my shirt.

My throat closes.

I press my lips against her hair.

"I know, sweetheart," I whisper solemnly, struggling to keep my voice steady.

"I tried," she sobs.

Her little fingers tighten around my shirt.

"I tried to wake her up."

I close my eyes.

"Baby..."

"But she wouldn't," she cries harder.

A sob tears out of her.

"I called her, Papa. I called her lots of times."

I hold her tighter.

Not enough to hurt her.

Just enough to remind myself she's here.

She's alive.

She's breathing.

"I'm sorry," she whispers.

I pull back immediately.

"What?" I ask, my voice sharp with disbelief.

Her lower lip trembles.

"I'm sorry I couldn't wake her up."

Jesus Christ.

"No," I say firmly.

I cup her little face between my hands.

"Listen to me, Valentina," I tell her with quiet intensity.

She sniffles.

"Okay."

"You did nothing wrong," I say, looking directly into her tear-filled eyes.

"But..."

"Nothing," I repeat with force. "Do you understand me?"

She nods.

Tears slide down her cheeks.

I wipe them away with my thumbs.

"This is not your fault, baby," I assure her, my voice softening.

She looks at me.

"Where's Mama?" she asks quietly.

And there it is.

The question I knew was coming.

The question I would give anything not to answer.

I swallow.

"Sweetheart..." I begin, my voice breaking.

"Is she with the doctor?" Valerie asks hopefully.

I close my eyes.

How do you tell a six-year-old that her mother is dead?

How do you explain that the woman who tucked her into bed last night will never do it again?

That she'll never hear her laugh?

Never feel her kiss?

Never smell her perfume?

I can't.

I can't f*****g do it.

But I have to.

Because I'm her father.

And she's looking at me like I can fix this.

Like I can fix anything.

"Your mama was hurt very badly," I explain gently, brushing a strand of hair away from her forehead.

Her little face crumples.

"Can the doctors make her better?" she asks through her tears.

I shake my head slowly.

"No, baby," I whisper.

"Why?" she cries.

I pull her against my chest.

"Because sometimes... sometimes people get hurt in ways the doctors can't fix," I explain, my voice trembling with grief.

She starts crying again.

I hold her.

And for the first time in years, I cry too.

Later, when Valerie finally falls asleep, Sal comes into the room.

He closes the door quietly behind him.

I don't look up.

"Tell me," I order, my voice low and controlled.

My brother hesitates.

"Vincent..."

"Tell me what happened," I repeat firmly, finally lifting my gaze.

He pulls a chair closer.

"The SUV hit them from behind. Hard. Forced Mary's car off the road," he explains grimly.

I stare at my daughter's sleeping face.

"An accident?" I ask quietly.

Sal says nothing.

I look up.

"Was it an accident?" I demand, my voice sharpening.

His jaw tightens.

"No," he answers solemnly.

The word settles between us.

Cold.

Final.

I look back at Valerie.

Her little chest rises and falls beneath the hospital blanket.

"Who?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

"We don't know yet," Sal replies cautiously.

I nod slowly.

My mind is already moving.

Names.

Faces.

Enemies.

Men who have smiled across tables while imagining what it would take to bring me to my knees.

"Find out," I order coldly.

"Vincent..."

"Find. Out," I repeat with deadly emphasis.

Sal leans forward.

"There's something else," he says quietly.

I turn toward him.

"What?"

"One of the officers said Valerie was talking when they found her."

My stomach tightens.

"Talking about what?" I ask immediately.

"Men."

I go still.

"What men?" I demand.

"She said there were men outside the car. That one of them looked inside," Sal explains.

I stare at him.

Sal's voice drops.

"She said he had a ring."

"A ring?" I repeat slowly.

"A snake. With a black stone," he answers.

For a moment, I can't speak.

A snake.

I know men who wear symbols like that.

Men who think they're untouchable.

Men who have been circling my territory for months.

My hands curl into fists.

"Did they touch her?" I ask, my voice dangerously quiet.

"From what we know, no," Sal assures me.

I look toward my daughter.

Six years old.

Six f*****g years old.

And she watched strangers stand over her dying mother.

Something inside me goes cold.

Not grief.

Not fear.

Something worse.

"Find every man who was on that road tonight," I order, my voice steady and merciless.

Sal nods.

"And Vincent?" he asks cautiously.

I look at him.

"Don't do anything until we know who ordered it," he warns.

I stare at him for a long moment.

Then look back at Valerie.

"I won't," I reply quietly.

It's the first lie I've told my brother tonight.

It's nearly midnight when I finally remember Vinny.

My son.

Jesus Christ.

My son.

He's ten years old.

Thousands of miles away.

Sleeping in some boarding school in northern Italy because I insisted he needed the same education I had.

Mary hated that decision.

She fought me for weeks.

"He's nine years old, Vincent," she had argued, standing in our bedroom with her arms crossed.

"I was nine when my father sent me," I'd replied dismissively.

"And you hated it," she'd countered, her eyes flashing with frustration.

"It made me who I am," I'd said firmly.

She'd looked at me then.

Really looked at me.

"Maybe that's what I'm afraid of," she'd whispered.

I was angry when she said it.

I didn't speak to her for the rest of the evening.

The next morning, she apologized.

Not for what she'd said.

For hurting my feelings.

And I let her.

God help me, I let her apologize for being right.

Now our son is alone in Italy.

And his mother is dead.

I step into the empty hallway and dial the school's number.

The headmaster answers on the third ring.

"Mr. Moretti?" he says politely.

"I need to speak to my son," I tell him, my voice strained.

There's a pause.

"Of course, sir. Is everything all right?" he asks cautiously.

"No," I answer bluntly.

Silence.

Then footsteps.

A door opening.

Muffled voices.

And finally...

"Papa?" Vinny asks sleepily.

My son's voice.

Small.

Innocent.

"Vincenzo," I say quietly.

"Papa? What's wrong?" he asks, suddenly sounding more awake.

I close my eyes.

I've ordered men killed without hesitation.

I've stared down enemies twice my size.

I've built an empire on the understanding that Vincent Moretti does not show weakness.

But I cannot find the words to tell my ten-year-old son that his mother is dead.

"Papa?" he asks again, his voice growing worried.

I grip the telephone tighter.

"Vincenzo, listen to me," I begin solemnly.

"Is Mama there?" he asks quickly.

My throat closes.

"Son..."

"Can I talk to her? She said she'd call tonight," he explains, sounding confused.

I press my free hand against the wall.

Jesus Christ.

"Papa?" he whispers.

"Your mother was in an accident," I tell him carefully.

There's a pause.

"What kind of accident?" he asks nervously.

"A car accident," I answer quietly.

"Is she okay?"

I stare through the glass into the hospital room where my daughter lies asleep.

Six years old.

Bandages covering half her face.

And I have never felt more helpless in my life.

"Papa?" Vinny whispers.

I force the words out.

"No, son. She's not," I answer, my voice breaking.

Silence.

A long, terrible silence.

Then...

"What do you mean?" he asks, sounding frightened.

I close my eyes.

"Your mother was hurt very badly," I explain gently.

"Okay," he says quickly. "But she's at the hospital, right?"

I can't speak.

"Papa?"

"Yes," I manage.

"So the doctors can fix her," he says hopefully.

I press my forehead against the wall.

"No, Vincenzo," I whisper.

Another pause.

"Why not?" he asks, his voice trembling.

My chest tightens.

"Because she died, son," I say solemnly.

The silence that follows will haunt me for the rest of my life.

Then I hear him breathe.

A small, shaky breath.

"No," he whispers.

"Vinny..."

"No," he repeats, louder this time.

His voice rises.

"No, she didn't," he says desperately.

I close my eyes.

"I'm so sorry, son," I whisper.

"You're lying," he cries.

"Vincenzo..."

"You're lying!" he screams.

Something crashes on his end of the phone.

I hear the headmaster say his name.

Vinny starts crying.

And I swear to God, it's the worst sound I've ever heard.

Not the screaming.

Not the anger.

The crying.

My little boy.

My firstborn.

The child who used to fall asleep on my chest while Mary laughed and told me I was spoiling him.

He's ten years old.

And I'm telling him his mother is dead over the telephone.

"Where's Valerie?" he asks suddenly through his tears.

"She's here with me," I answer gently.

"Is she okay?"

"She's hurt, but she's going to be all right," I assure him.

Another silence.

Then he asks, very quietly, "Was she with Mama?"

I swallow.

"Yes," I answer solemnly.

"Did she see her?" he asks.

I close my eyes.

"Yes, son."

"Did Mama talk to her?"

The question catches me off guard.

"I... I don't know," I admit.

He starts crying again.

"That's not fair," he whispers bitterly.

I grip the phone tighter.

"I know," I reply softly.

"No, you don't!" he shouts, his voice cracking.

"Vincenzo..."

"She got to be there!" he cries angrily.

I don't answer.

"Valerie got to see her!" he sobs.

"Vinny..."

"And I didn't!" he screams.

The words tear through me.

I press my fist against my mouth.

"Son, listen to me," I plead.

"Why did you make me go to Italy?" he asks through his tears, his small voice trembling with anger.

Everything stops.

My heart.

My breathing.

The world.

"Vinny..." I whisper.

"Why?" he demands.

His voice breaks.

"Mama didn't want me to go," he cries.

I close my eyes.

"Son..."

"She wanted me to stay home," he continues, his words tumbling out between sobs.

I can't speak.

"She told you I was too little," he says accusingly.

I remember.

Every argument.

Every tear.

Every time Mary asked me to reconsider.

And every time I told her I knew what was best for our son.

"Why didn't you listen to her, Papa?" he asks brokenly.

I slide down against the wall.

For the second time tonight, I find myself on the floor.

And I have no answer.

None.

Because he's right.

My ten-year-old son is absolutely f*****g right.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, my voice thick with regret.

But he's crying too hard to hear me.

Sal finds me sitting outside Valerie's room twenty minutes later.

My phone is still in my hand.

I haven't moved.

He sits beside me.

Neither of us speaks.

Finally, he asks, "How's Vinny?"

I stare at the floor.

"He hates me," I answer bitterly.

Sal sighs.

"He's ten, Vincent," he reminds me gently.

"He asked me why I sent him away," I say, my voice hollow.

My brother doesn't answer.

"He said Mary wanted him home," I continue.

Sal looks down.

I laugh bitterly.

"She did," I admit.

"Vincent..."

"She begged me not to send him," I whisper, my voice breaking.

Sal rests a hand on my shoulder.

I shake my head.

"She said he was too young," I continue, staring at the floor.

For a long moment, neither of us speaks.

Then I look through the glass.

At Valerie.

My little girl.

Sleeping with her brother's stuffed rabbit tucked beneath her arm.

"Bring him home," I order quietly.

Sal nods.

"I'll arrange it," he assures me.

"Tomorrow," I add firmly.

"Vincent..."

"Tomorrow, Sal," I repeat with force, turning to meet his eyes.

He studies me.

Then nods again.

"Okay," he agrees solemnly.

I look back at my daughter.

I think about the way she cried.

The way she apologized for not being able to wake her mother.

The way she looked at me like I could fix everything.

I couldn't save Mary.

I couldn't protect her.

I couldn't bring her home.

And now my son is halfway across the world, believing I took his mother away from him.

I close my eyes.

Never again.

I won't lose another person I love.

Not my son.

Not my daughter.

Not anyone.

I will protect them.

Even if they hate me for it.

Even if they never understand.

Even if I have to burn this entire f*****g city to the ground.

I look through the glass one last time.

At my little girl.

My Valentina.

Mary's little star.

And I make a promise.

To my wife.

To my children.

To myself.

Whoever did this will pay.

I don't care how long it takes.

I don't care how many men I have to bury.

I don't care what it costs me.

They took my wife.

They took my children's mother.

They destroyed my family.

And one day, when they least expect it, I'm going to take everything from them.

Everything.

Because I am Vincent Moretti.

And I do not forgive.

I do not forget.

And I will never, ever let anyone hurt my family again.