Chapter 3 - THE MAN AT THE ALTAR
Vincent Moretti had been with the Santoro family longer than Sofia had been alive.
He was fifty-seven now.
Soft-spoken.
Patient.
The kind of man who remembered which grandchildren preferred chocolate cake and which widows hated being seated near doors.
Raffaele had trusted him with routes.
Money.
Men.
Funerals.
His daughters.
He had been godfather to Beatrice.
And he had walked into the bridal floor that morning carrying a silver flask for Raffaele because “weddings make men thirsty.”
Now Raffaele looked through the suite doors toward the distant corridor.
“Where is Vincent?”
One bodyguard answered.
“Downstairs.”
“Bring him.”
Grace stood.
“No.”
Raffaele turned.
“If you confront him now, we lose whatever he knows.”
“Then suggest something better.”
“Watch him.”
Raffaele stared.
Grace continued.
“If Thomas was right, Vincent was involved eighteen years ago. A man who survives that long with a secret does not confess because you ask loudly.”
Caleb laughed.
“Mother finally sounds like herself.”
Grace turned on him.
“You have done enough.”
Caleb’s expression sharpened.
“I did more than you ever had the courage to.”
“You assaulted Sofia.”
“I scared her.”
“You used Beatrice’s last hours against her.”
“And she talked.”
Sofia stepped toward him.
“No.”
Caleb looked at her.
“You asked what I remembered.”
“Yes.”
“I remembered nothing.”
His confidence wavered.
Sofia continued.
“You fed me details.”
Grace looked at her son.
Sofia’s voice steadied.
“Every time I said I didn’t know, you told me where Beatrice was standing. What she wore. What she said.”
Raffaele looked at Caleb.
“How did you know those things?”
Caleb said nothing.
Raffaele stepped closer.
“Grace?”
She looked genuinely confused now.
“I never told him.”
Caleb’s face changed.
Small.
Enough.
Sofia saw it first.
“Someone else did.”
Caleb looked away.
Raffaele's voice became quiet.
“Who?”
Caleb shrugged.
Raffaele smiled without warmth.
“You still think this is a negotiation.”
“It is.”
“No.”
Raffaele looked toward the bodyguards.
“It stopped being one when you touched my daughter.”
Caleb’s jaw tightened.
“Kill me and you lose the answer.”
Sofia spoke before Raffaele.
“Dad, don’t.”
He looked at her.
“Not for him.”
She glanced at Caleb.
“For me.”
Raffaele nodded.
That surprised Caleb.
Maybe he had expected rage.
Maybe everyone still expected the Raffaele from eighteen years ago.
That man had made graves before asking second questions.
Raffaele refused to become useful to another enemy.
He looked at Grace.
“Who gave Caleb information?”
“I don’t know.”
Caleb smiled.
That smile told Raffaele he did.
Downstairs, music began again.
The guests did not know the wedding was over.
Not officially.
Sofia removed her veil.
Grace watched.
“Sofia.”
She dropped it onto the vanity.
“There is no wedding.”
Caleb looked at her.
“You don’t mean that.”
She stared.
“You put your hands on me.”
His face hardened.
“I was under pressure.”
“So was I.”
“You don’t know what they threatened.”
Raffaele’s eyes narrowed.
There it was.
“Who threatened you?”
Caleb hesitated.
Grace whispered, “Caleb.”
He snapped.
“Stop pretending!”
She went still.
“You knew they were watching us.”
“Who?”
“The man with the burned hand.”
Grace’s face emptied.
Raffaele saw it.
“You know him.”
“No.”
“You do.”
Grace lowered her voice.
“I know of him.”
“Name.”
“He called himself Elias.”
Raffaele frowned.
No family name.
No affiliation.
Grace continued.
“He came to Caleb six months ago.”
Caleb stared at her.
“You knew?”
“Yes.”
“And said nothing?”
“I thought he was using you to reach me.”
Caleb laughed bitterly.
“He was.”
“What did he want?”
“To know whether Sofia remembered the river house.”
Sofia felt cold.
Raffaele looked at her.
“Why would her memory matter?”
Grace said:
“Because Sofia was there.”
Silence.
Raffaele turned slowly.
“No.”
Grace nodded.
“Thomas told me.”
“No.”
“You brought Sofia to the river house yourself.”
Raffaele’s face changed.
Sofia stared at him.
“What?”
He shook his head.
“I never took you there.”
Grace whispered, “Then someone did.”
Sofia touched her temple.
A fragment.
Not image.
Sound.
Rain.
A woman humming.
A door slamming.
And someone saying:
“Keep Sofia in the car.”
She closed her eyes.
Raffaele moved toward her.
“Sofia?”
“I remember a voice.”
“Whose?”
She shook her head.
“I don’t know.”
Then another memory came.
A ring.
A hand on a steering wheel.
Black stone.
Silver crest.
Sofia opened her eyes.
“Dad.”
“What?”
“The man driving wore our ring.”
Raffaele looked at his own signet ring.
Every senior Santoro male of his generation had worn one.
Raffaele.
Luca.
Vincent, though not by blood, had received an honorary version.
And one other man.
Raffaele’s father.
Don Emilio Santoro.
Dead seventeen years.
Grace whispered, “What do you remember?”
Sofia looked toward the door.
“The driver said Beatrice had finally chosen.”
Raffaele’s blood went cold.
Then a bodyguard entered.
“Boss.”
May you like
“What?”
“Vincent Moretti is gone.”
