Chapter 4The Moretti Daughter They Denied

By sunrise, I could no longer stand. Fever pulled me in and out of consciousness, and each time I opened my eyes, another memory waited in the dark.

When I was nine, I wore a borrowed black dress to Sunday dinner, but my father stopped me at the door and said, “This table is for blood relatives and sworn members of the Family.”

When I was fifteen, gunmen attacked a Moretti restaurant. The guards evacuated Bianca and left me behind because my name wasn't on the protection list. After a bullet grazed my shoulder, I took a bus to the hospital alone.

My father arrived two hours later and asked why I had made myself visible to the shooters, not whether I was hurt.

For eighteen years, I had believed they treated me that way because I wasn't their biological daughter. Now, as I lay dying in their cellar, I understood that blood had never been the reason. They had simply chosen Bianca.

Near noon, Dana unlocked the cellar and froze when she saw the blood beneath me.

“Rocco, her lips are turning blue.”

Rocco came down and touched my forehead, then jerked his hand away.

“She needs a hospital,” Dana said.

“The Don said she doesn't leave without permission.”

“She could die.”

Rocco went upstairs to call Dominic. I heard him explain my condition twice, but when he returned, he locked the door again.

“Dominic says the order stands. You stay isolated until the Don makes his decision after the gala.”

By afternoon, I was coughing blood. Every breath scraped through my chest, and I no longer had the strength to call for help.

A phone suddenly began ringing beneath the cot. Rocco must have dropped it when he checked me.

I dragged myself across the floor and reached under the bed. My father's name glowed on the screen because he was calling Rocco.

I answered.

“Rocco?” My father's voice was cold, while applause and music from Bianca's induction ceremony sounded behind him.

I tried to speak, but blood filled my throat.

“Dad.”

After a moment of silence, his voice hardened.

“Your mother says you're still pretending to be sick. How long are you planning to keep this up?”

“I'm not pretending.”

“You searched for your birth family, threatened Bianca's position, and refused to confess. Now you're trying to frighten your mother on the most important night of your sister's life.”

“I can't breathe.”

“Then stop wasting your strength and sign the statement.”

I closed my eyes. “I'm dying.”

He exhaled sharply.

“You're twenty-four years old, Serena. Saying something that vile won't make me bring you home.”

“Rocco and Dana won't take me to a hospital.”

“They answer to me. Until you admit what you did, that door stays locked.”

Only then did I understand that he truly believed I couldn't die without his permission.

“Dad,” I whispered, calling him that for the last time. “I could have lived.”

After a brief pause, he said, “Come back and talk to me about living when you've learned to tell the truth.”

The call ended, and the phone slipped from my hand.

My body suddenly felt weightless as the pain disappeared, followed by the cold. When I opened my eyes again, I was standing at the far end of the cellar.

Rocco knelt beside the cot, pressing both hands against my chest, while Dana screamed into the emergency phone. The woman on the floor didn't move. Her face was streaked with dried blood, purple bruises covered her arms, and one hand still reached toward the phone.

That was my body.

I was dead.

Hours later, my father returned to his study after Bianca's induction gala. He had just removed his bow tie when the secure line rang.

“Mr. Moretti, this is Sheriff Claire Nolan in Ashland County. We found Serena locked inside the storm cellar at your Black Pine property.”

My father frowned.

“Put her on the phone.”

“I can't. The paramedics pronounced her dead at the scene.”

He gave a cold laugh.

“Serena called her mother this afternoon with the same lie. Tell her this performance is over.”

“Mr. Moretti—”

“If she keeps this up, she won't have a home to return to. I'll throw her out of the Moretti estate for good.”

The sheriff fell silent for a moment.

“Your daughter is dead, Mr. Moretti. I just sent a photograph from the scene to your secure number.”

His phone vibrated on the desk.

My father opened the message.

The photograph showed my body on the cellar floor. Dried blood covered my face, bruises darkened my arms, and one hand remained stretched toward the phone I had tried to reach.

He stared at the screen, all contempt draining from his face.

Then the phone slipped from his hand.

“Serena!”