Chapter 3 - THE CARDIOLOGIST WHO SIGNED MY BROTHER’S DEATH CERTIFICATE WAS TRYING TO LEAVE THE COUNTRY
Rebecca and Dr. Caleb Warren never boarded the plane.
Police detained them separately.
Not because I ordered it.
Because detectives already had enough questions about the children, the basement, the medications, and the sudden attempt to leave the country to stop both of them for interviews.
That distinction mattered.
Especially now.
My first instinct had been to send men to the airport.
My second had been to remember Dana Cole’s warning.
Do not give anyone a reason to say the children are safer somewhere else.
So I sat beside Leo instead.
Hardest thing I had done all day.
By dawn, Leo was sleeping.
Maya curled beside me on a hospital recliner.
I had one arm around her.
Dana returned with coffee.
“You look terrible.”
“Thank you.”
“I meant it professionally.”
“Helpful.”
She handed me a cup.
“Emergency kinship placement hearing is at two.”
“That fast?”
“The case is severe.”
“What do you need?”
“Home inspection at ten.”
“Your staff information.”
“Firearms secured.”
I looked at her.
“They are.”
“Good.”
“No armed men openly around the children.”
I almost smiled.
“What counts as openly?”
“Mr. Moretti.”
“Joke.”
She did not laugh.
Probably wise.
“Anyone living in the home?”
“Me.”
“Full-time housekeeper.”
“Cook.”
“Security on property.”
“Backgrounds?”
“Available.”
“Bedrooms?”
“Twelve.”
She stared.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Rich people make paperwork weird.”
I almost laughed.
“Anything else?”
“Yes.”
She sat.
“Rebecca’s attorney is likely to argue that you are unsuitable.”
“On what grounds?”
“Reputation.”
“Alleged criminal associations.”
“Violence around your businesses.”
I became still.
“Alleged.”
Dana held my gaze.
“I am not your attorney.”
“Don’t argue language with me.”
I leaned back.
“What matters?”
“Current safety.”
“Stability.”
“Your willingness to cooperate.”
“Whether placing the children with you exposes them to foreseeable danger.”
That last one mattered.
My house was guarded.
Safe physically.
But Ethan had hated my world for a reason.
Enemies.
Retaliation.
Men who solved problems in silence.
I thought of Leo crawling to my gate.
Then:
“I’ll change anything necessary.”
Dana studied me.
“You mean that?”
“Yes.”
She nodded.
“Good.”
At eight, Detective Maria Santos arrived.
Austin Police.
Mid-forties.
Tired eyes.
No interest in being impressed.
“Mr. Moretti.”
“Detective.”
“We need to talk about Ethan.”
I stood carefully so I wouldn’t wake Maya.
We moved into a conference room.
Santos placed a folder on the table.
“Your brother died March twelfth.”
“Yes.”
“Reported chest pain.”
“Collapsed at home.”
“Rebecca called 911.”
“Yes.”
“Dr. Warren had treated him privately for intermittent palpitations.”
I frowned.
“Ethan never told me that.”
Santos looked at me.
“According to Rebecca.”
There it was.
Not fact.
Her claim.
“Hospital?”
“He was pronounced after arrival.”
“Autopsy?”
“No full autopsy.”
My jaw tightened.
“Why?”
“Attending physician and family reported known cardiac concerns.”
“Rebecca authorized release.”
“Dr. Warren supplied medical history.”
My stomach turned.
“So one doctor says Ethan had a heart problem.”
“His wife confirms it.”
“And nobody checks.”
Santos shook her head.
“Not exactly.”
“Emergency physicians documented an apparent cardiac event.”
“But without full toxicology and autopsy, some questions were never asked.”
“What did police find in the basement?”
She watched me.
“You understand I cannot share everything.”
“Tell me what concerns the children.”
She opened photographs.
I wished she hadn’t.
The room.
Bare concrete.
Small mattress.
Plastic bucket.
Old food.
A child-sized blanket.
Marks on the wall.
One photograph showed scratches beside the door.
Long vertical lines.
My hands tightened.
Santos slid another photo.
Prescription bottles.
Most unlabeled.
One marked:
ETHAN MORETTI — DIGOXIN
I stared.
“What is that?”
“Heart medication.”
“Was he prescribed it?”
“We’re checking.”
“Can it kill someone?”
Santos paused.
“At toxic levels, yes.”
My blood went cold.
“Was the bottle empty?”
“Almost.”
“When filled?”
“Four months before his death.”
I stared.
“Who prescribed it?”
“Dr. Caleb Warren.”
There it was.
The airport.
Cancún.
Rebecca.
Warren.
I stood.
Santos raised one hand.
“Sit down.”
I looked at her.
“Mr. Moretti.”
Her voice hardened.
“If your next thought involves someone disappearing, don’t.”
I smiled coldly.
“You have a vivid imagination.”
“I’ve worked organized crime twenty-one years.”
“So do you.”
Fair.
I sat.
Santos continued.
“We are not saying Ethan was poisoned.”
“Yet.”
“We are saying the circumstances justify reopening the death investigation.”
“Can you test him?”
Silence.
Then:
“Exhumation may be necessary.”
The word hit me.
I looked away.
My mother was dead.
My father too.
Ethan and I had buried each other’s friends.
I had stood at his grave three months earlier and promised his children would be protected.
Now they might have to open the ground because I failed to ask questions the first time.
“Do it.”
Santos looked at me.
“It requires legal process.”
“Do whatever it takes.”
“We will.”
She closed the folder.
“Rebecca claims you are manufacturing this because you want custody.”
I laughed.
“Of course.”
“She also says Leo is accident-prone.”
“He has a broken leg weeks old.”
“Yes.”
“She says she planned to take him for treatment.”
“When?”
“No answer.”
“And the hidden room?”
“She says it was a storm room.”
“With external locks?”
“She claims Ethan installed them.”
My jaw tightened.
“Ethan would never lock his children underground.”
Santos said nothing.
Right.
Emotion was not evidence.
She stood.
“We’re collecting evidence.”
“I suggest you do the same thing I tell everyone.”
“What?”
“Let us.”
Then she left.
At ten, the home inspection began.
Dana brought two CPS workers.
They walked through my house.
Not the criminal parts of my life.
The ordinary ones.
Kitchen.
Bedrooms.
Pool gate.
Medication storage.
Security rooms.
Firearms safe.
Emergency exits.
Leo’s potential bedroom.
Maya’s.
I had not prepared bedrooms for children.
That hurt.
Ethan had kept them away enough that I never made permanent space.
By noon, my staff had transformed two guest rooms.
I stopped them.
“No.”
My housekeeper, Elena Ruiz, frowned.
“What?”
“Don’t make them hotel rooms.”
“What do you mean?”
“They need to choose.”
She understood.
We left them plain.
Beds.
Dressers.
Nothing else.
Let them decide colors.
Toys.
Where things belonged.
Control.
Small control.
They had lost too much of it.
At two, I appeared by video before a family-court judge from a hospital room.
Rebecca appeared from another location with counsel.
Her hair was perfect.
That enraged me for irrational reasons.
She cried immediately.
“Your Honor, I love those children.”
My jaw locked.
Her lawyer argued Leo’s injuries were accidental.
Maya’s dehydration resulted from a “brief emergency.”
The basement room was “mischaracterized.”
My reputation made me dangerous.
Then Dana testified.
She described the children’s condition.
Hospital findings.
Leo’s disclosures.
Maya’s statements.
Police investigation.
The judge asked me one question.
“Mr. Moretti, your brother reportedly wanted his children kept away from your criminal associations.”
Every person in the room froze.
I answered carefully.
“He wanted them away from danger.”
“Is that the same thing?”
“No.”
Good question.
I continued.
“My brother and I disagreed about my life.”
“He was right about some of it.”
“Which parts?”
“That fear is not the same as safety.”
“That money is not the same as stability.”
“And that children should not grow up thinking power excuses everything.”
Rebecca stared.
The judge asked:
“Would you be willing to alter your household arrangements, business involvement, or security structure if necessary to protect them?”
“Yes.”
“Without qualification?”
I thought of everything I had built.
Then Leo saying:
You stayed.
“Yes.”
The judge granted temporary emergency placement with me after hospital discharge.
Fourteen days pending further review.
Rebecca was prohibited from contact except through court-approved channels.
I should have felt victorious.
I didn’t.
This was not winning.
Two children were injured.
My brother was dead.
And detectives were preparing to ask a judge for permission to dig up his grave.
That evening, Leo woke after surgery.
The fracture required correction because it had begun healing improperly.
He was groggy.
“Uncle Thomas?”
“I’m here.”
“Where Maya?”
“Asleep.”
He nodded.
Then:
“Are we going back?”
“No.”
His eyes searched mine.
“Ever?”
I hesitated.
Children deserve truth too.
“I don’t know what a judge decides later.”
His face crumpled.
I leaned closer.
“But I know something else.”
“What?”
“You will not be sent anywhere without people listening to you.”
He swallowed.
“Rebecca says kids don’t choose.”
“She’s right about one thing.”
“Children do not make every adult decision.”
“But your fear matters.”
“What happened matters.”
“The truth matters.”
Leo stared at me.
Then whispered:
“Daddy knew.”
My heart stopped.
“What?”
He looked toward the door.
“Daddy knew Rebecca was bad.”
I leaned closer.
“How?”
“Before he died.”
Leo’s breathing quickened.
“He told me if something happened…”
He started crying.
I held his hand.
“What did he tell you?”
Leo whispered:
“Go to Uncle Thomas.”
Every muscle in my body went still.
“Exactly what did he say?”
Leo closed his eyes, trying to remember.
“Daddy said…”
A tear rolled down his face.
“‘If I can’t come home one day, take Maya and go to Thomas.’”
I could barely breathe.
“Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“Rebecca said Daddy was sick when he said it.”
“She said he didn’t mean it.”
I stood slowly.
Ethan had known something.
Before he died.
And he had sent his children to me.
Not away from me.
To me.
My phone rang.
Detective Santos.
I answered.
“We got a warrant.”
“For what?”
“Rebecca’s financial records.”
“And?”
Her voice changed.
“Two weeks before Ethan died, she increased his life insurance.”
My blood froze.
“How much?”
“From one million to eight.”
I closed my eyes.
“Beneficiary?”
“Rebecca.”
Silence.
Then Santos added:
“And Thomas?”
“Yes?”
“Dr. Warren signed the medical certification stating Ethan was healthy enough for the policy increase.”
The same doctor who later claimed Ethan had a serious heart condition.
The room became very still.
Santos said:
“We have a problem.”
“No.”
I looked at my sleeping nephew.
May you like
“We have a pattern.”
And this time, I was going to let evidence tell me exactly how ugly it was.
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