Chapter 12
Gavin laughed.
Nobody joined him.
“No.”
Nolan sat down.
Gavin stared.
“No.”
Rocco watched Nolan.
“Tell him.”
Nolan looked at his son.
“Sybil was pregnant when I married her.”
Silence.
Gavin stepped backward.
“No.”
“She told me the father was dead.”
“Who?”
Nolan looked toward the music box.
“I didn’t know then.”
“But now.”
“Yes.”
Gavin’s face emptied.
Nolan continued.
“Years later, Domenico told me he suspected Silvio.”
Gavin stared.
“You knew I might be Moretti.”
“Yes.”
“And never told me.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because Silvio was hunting his descendants.”
“Protection.”
Gavin laughed.
Everyone in the room felt the poison in the word.
Nolan accepted it.
“Yes.”
Gavin looked toward Rocco.
“Then Brenna…”
“No.”
Rocco understood the fear.
If Gavin descended from Silvio, he and Brenna were distant cousins.
Not close enough to make their marriage biologically alarming, but enough to twist family politics.
Rocco’s expression remained cold.
“Silvio was my great-uncle through a separate branch.”
Enzo corrected:
“Our uncle.”
Rocco nodded.
Gavin stared at Nolan.
“Did Mom know?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
Gavin laughed bitterly.
“Your certainty is worthless.”
Fair.
Brenna remained quiet.
This revelation did not erase Gavin’s betrayal.
Bloodline twists did not repair marriage.
Celeste spoke first.
“So Aldo needed Gavin inside the Moretti house because Gavin might be Silvio’s grandson.”
Nolan nodded.
“Yes.”
“And Elliot?”
Everyone looked at her.
She held Marcus’s token.
“My son is Vale.”
Enzo answered.
“Marcus Vale Senior believed Vale blood was the second side of Silvio’s plan.”
Celeste frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“Silvio had a daughter.”
“Who?”
“No name.”
Enzo looked at Elliot’s token.
“Marcus believed she married into Vale.”
Celeste went still.
“You’re saying Elliot may be related to Silvio too.”
“Yes.”
Rocco finally saw the architecture.
Gavin.
Elliot.
Tobin.
Three children or descendants brought beneath one roof.
Ashford.
Vale.
Moretti.
Not random.
The house had been selected.
The marriage helped.
The affair helped.
The room swap helped.
Somebody wanted all lines together.
“Celeste,” Rocco said.
She looked at him.
“How did you meet Gavin?”
She hesitated.
“A fundraiser.”
“Who introduced you?”
Her face changed.
“An older man.”
“Name?”
“He called himself Mr. Bell.”
Anthony Bell stiffened.
Everyone looked at him.
He stared.
“Not me.”
Celeste nodded quickly.
“Older than you.”
“First name?”
“Alfred.”
Enzo went pale.
Rocco saw it.
“What?”
Enzo whispered:
“Aldo used Alfred Bell as an alias.”
Anthony’s expression changed.
He had served Rocco twenty-two years carrying a surname Aldo had used.
Coincidence?
Perhaps.
Rocco looked at him.
Anthony did not move.
“You think I’m his son.”
“I think nothing yet.”
“Good.”
Anthony removed his weapon and placed it on the table.
“If you need to ask, ask.”
Rocco studied him.
No fear.
No defensiveness.
“Who was your father?”
“Arthur Bell.”
“Body?”
Anthony almost smiled.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
The room relaxed slightly.
Then Brenna spoke.
“We’re still doing exactly what Silvio wanted.”
Everyone turned.
She looked around.
“New bloodline secret appears, and immediately we start deciding which person is secretly the enemy.”
Rocco nodded slowly.
She was right.
Brenna continued.
“If the Black Room contains the answer, open it.”
Nolan looked toward the three foxes.
“The second chamber requires all three.”
They returned to the Ashford house before dawn.
Brenna entered Tobin’s empty bedroom first.
The open wall looked like a wound.
Below, the first chamber waited.
All three foxes were inserted into separate locks hidden around the fireplace.
The stone moved.
A narrow passage appeared.
At the end stood a black wooden door.
No lock.
Only a small child’s handprint carved into the center.
Brenna touched it.
The door opened.
Inside sat one chair.
One old projector.
And a wall covered in photographs.
Children.
Dozens.
Different families.
Different decades.
Moretti.
Ashford.
Vale.
Caruso.
Brenna stared.
Tobin’s photograph was there.
Recent.
Taken through his bedroom window.
Elliot’s beside it.
Then Gavin as a child.
Brenna at six.
Celeste at nine.
Someone had watched every generation.
Rocco looked at the newest photograph.
Tobin asleep holding his stuffed shark.
Taken three nights earlier.
A shadow stood near the bedroom doorway.
Not Gavin.
Not Sybil.
An old man.
Brenna whispered:
“He was inside the house.”
Rocco recognized the face from family photographs.
Thirty years older.
May you like
Still unmistakable.
Silvio Moretti was alive.
