Chapter 3 - Ashes of the Moretti Name
Pain was the only constant for forty-eight hours.
The private clinic wasn’t in Manhattan. It wasn’t even in New York. Daniel had loaded me into the back of an unmarked transport van used by runway contractors, driving two hours north into the secluded hills of upstate New York, arriving at a private, secure medical facility run by his sister, Dr. Elena Reyes.
“She’s in placental abruption,” Elena’s voice was tense, clinical, cutting through the haze of my delirium. “Prepare the surgical suite now. If we don’t get this baby out in twenty minutes, we lose both of them.”
I gripped the edge of the operating table until my knuckles turned white. “Save… my son,” I choked out, my voice raw from inhaled smoke. “Whatever happens… save him.”
“You’re going to survive this, Anna,” Daniel said, leaning over the gurney, his hand steady on my shoulder. “You both are.”
The anesthesia took me under like a cold tide.
When I woke, the world was silent.
The harsh smell of antiseptic replaced the stench of burning aviation fuel. A low, rhythmic beeping filled the room. Sunlight filtered through white blinds, casting pale stripes across the linen sheets.
My hand flew to my abdomen.
It was flat. Empty.
Panic, cold and suffocating, seized my throat. I tried to scream, but only a dry rasp escaped.
“Easy. Easy, Anna.”
Elena stepped into my field of vision, her tired eyes softening with deep compassion. She turned to a clear plastic incubator stationed beside the bed. Inside, hooked to tiny monitors and breathing through a micro-nasal cannula, was a tiny, perfect human being.
Ten fingers. Ten toes. A dusting of midnight-black hair that looked terrifyingly like his father’s.
“A boy,” Elena whispered gently, wheeling the bassinet closer so I could touch the warm plastic. “Four pounds, eight ounces. He’s a fighter, just like his mother. His lungs are strong. He’s going to make it.”
A single tear rolled down my temple, soaking into the pillow. I reached through the access port, my trembling index finger brushing against his tiny, fragile hand. Instantly, his miniature fingers curled around mine with astonishing strength.
“Leo,” I breathed, the name coming to me with absolute certainty. “His name is Leo.”
Daniel walked in quietly, carrying a tablet. He looked between me and the baby, a grim shadow crossing his features.
“You need to see this,” he said quietly, holding up the screen.
It was a live broadcast from St. Patrick’s Cathedral in Manhattan.
The banner at the bottom of the screen read: *TRAGIC PASSING OF PHILANTHROPIST ANNA BENNETT MORETTI AND UNBORN HEIR.*
The camera cut to Vincent.
He was dressed in bespoke black, his face hollow, his eyes sunken and shadowed with sleepless torment. He stood before a closed, flower-draped casket—an empty box, buried with all the pomp and circumstance of the city’s elite.
Beside him, dressed in tasteful mourning lace, was Sophia Carter. Her hand was resting tenderly on Vincent’s elbow, her face turned up to him with practiced, delicate grief.
*“Billionaire Vincent Moretti was inconsolable today,”* the news anchor narrated, *“as sources close to the family confirm that his childhood companion, Sophia Carter, has moved into the Moretti penthouse to assist the grieving widower through this unthinkable tragedy…”*
I stared at the screen.
Three days. It had taken Sophia Carter exactly three days to move into the master suite I had designed.
Vincent looked broken, yes. But he was alive. He had chosen Sophia on that runway, and now he was letting her step into my life while my empty grave was lowered into the earth.
“They searched the wreckage,” Daniel explained quietly. “The heat melted the fuselage completely. They found dental remains of the co-pilot, but row six was completely incinerated. The coroner issued the death certificates based on the manifest.”
“Good,” I said.
My voice didn’t tremble. The tears had dried.
I looked at my son, breathing steadily under the warm lights.
May you like
“Anna Moretti died in that fire,” I said, turning my eyes to Daniel. “From this moment on, I am Anna Bennett. And Vincent Moretti will never, ever lay a hand on my child.”
***
