Chapter 7 - THE SISTER WHO NEVER CAME HOME
Vincent did not speak for several seconds after I repeated Blake’s words.
Then he said, “No.”
Anthony looked at him.
“Vincent.”
“No.”
I asked, “You have a sister?”
He walked toward the window.
“Had.”
“Dead?”
“No.”
“Then where is she?”
“Gone.”
Anthony answered.
“Sofia.”
Vincent shot him a look.
Anthony ignored it.
“Our younger sister.”
“How much younger?”
“Three years younger than Vincent.”
“What happened?”
Anthony looked at his brother.
Vincent said, “She left.”
“Why?”
No answer.
Anthony sighed.
“Because of our father.”
Carlo Moretti had apparently been everything Vincent was accused of being and worse.
Violent.
Controlling.
Obsessed with loyalty.
Sofia had hated the family business.
She studied chemistry at Columbia.
Then pharmaceutical science.
My stomach tightened.
“Chemistry.”
Vincent turned.
“She wanted nothing to do with us.”
“When did she leave?”
“Eight years ago.”
“Before Isabella died.”
“Yes.”
“Did Isabella know her?”
“They were close.”
Anthony added, “Very close.”
Of course.
“Did Sofia know Blake?”
Silence.
Vincent looked toward me.
“She introduced him to the family.”
There it was.
Sofia had met Harrison Blake through pharmaceutical research.
Blake began consulting for private clinics connected to Moretti charities.
Carlo liked him.
Vincent tolerated him.
Isabella trusted him.
At first.
“What happened to Sofia?”
Vincent’s expression changed.
“Our father wanted her to marry someone.”
I blinked.
“What century was this?”
Anthony almost smiled.
“Carlo was traditional.”
“He was a tyrant,” Vincent said.
Anthony nodded.
“Sofia refused.”
Vincent continued.
“They fought.”
“What did he do?”
“He locked her accounts.”
My disgust must have shown.
Vincent looked away.
“I helped him.”
That confession cost him.
“Why?”
“Because I thought family loyalty mattered more than her anger.”
He laughed bitterly.
“I was thirty-two and already becoming him.”
Sofia disappeared two weeks later.
No body.
No funeral.
Just gone.
She sent Anthony one message:
Don’t look for me.
Vincent had obeyed.
Not because he wanted to.
Because by then their father was dying, the organization was unstable, and Vincent had chosen power again.
Now Blake implied Sofia was behind something.
I asked the obvious question.
“Could she be alive?”
Anthony answered.
“I think so.”
Vincent stared.
“You never told me?”
“I didn’t know.”
“You said think.”
“Because Isabella believed she was.”
Silence.
Anthony explained Isabella had received anonymous emails during her investigation.
Technical.
Detailed.
They exposed chemical purchase records.
Blake’s suppliers.
Offshore structures.
Isabella suspected Sofia.
Why?
One message ended:
Blue moons still rise over bad houses.
A phrase Sofia used as a teenager.
Vincent sat down.
“How did I not know any of this?”
Anthony’s face softened.
“Because nobody trusted what you would do with information.”
That hurt him.
It should have.
We spent hours reviewing Isabella’s recovered files.
One email contained coordinates.
Switzerland.
Another contained a photograph of a research laboratory.
No names.
Then federal investigators found a company in Zurich owned by a woman named Sophia Carver.
Age.
Education.
History.
No photograph.
Vincent stared at the record.
“Sofia used our mother’s maiden name.”
Carver.
She was alive.
The FBI contacted Swiss authorities.
By evening, Sofia Moretti was found.
Alive.
Working as a pharmaceutical compliance consultant.
And terrified when she learned Harrison Blake had spoken her name.
She agreed to return to the United States only if federal protection was guaranteed.
Vincent did not ask why she needed protection from him.
Maybe he already knew.
Sofia arrived three days later.
I met her in a secured federal facility.
She had Vincent’s eyes.
Same dark intensity.
But where his presence filled a room, hers seemed designed to disappear inside one.
She saw Anthony first.
Her face broke.
He crossed the room.
They hugged for a long time.
Then she saw Vincent.
Neither moved.
Eight years.
Brothers and sisters can carry wars longer than countries.
Vincent whispered, “Sofia.”
She looked at him.
“You look like Dad.”
That was not a compliment.
He absorbed it.
“I know.”
Something in her expression changed.
Maybe she had expected denial.
He did not offer one.
“I’m sorry.”
The room went quiet.
Sofia laughed once.
“You think that sentence fixes eight years?”
“No.”
Another surprise.
“I think it should have been said eight years ago.”
Sofia’s eyes filled.
She looked away.
Then Lucas and Leo entered with Mrs. Harper.
Sofia froze.
She had never met them.
Not in person.
Lucas stared.
“Are you Dad’s sister?”
Sofia looked at Vincent.
He nodded.
“Yes.”
Leo said, “You look like him.”
She smiled through tears.
“I’m sorry.”
Vincent almost laughed.
The boys approached.
Lucas held out his hand.
Sofia took it.
Then pulled both twins into a hug.
That broke the stalemate in a way no adult conversation could.
Later, Sofia explained everything.
She had discovered Blake’s illegal pharmaceutical activity while still working in New York.
At first, she believed it was only unlicensed compounding.
Then she found human trials.
Unreported adverse events.
Patients harmed.
One died.
Blake covered it.
Carlo Moretti helped.
Vincent’s father had used influence to silence lawsuits in exchange for a share of Blake’s profits.
Vincent stared at her.
“I never knew.”
“I know.”
She looked at him.
“Dad kept some businesses separate from you because he thought you were too sentimental.”
Anthony muttered, “That’s horrifying.”
Sofia continued.
When she threatened to expose them, Carlo threatened her.
Vincent helped freeze her money without understanding why.
She fled.
Years later, Isabella contacted her.
“How?”
“Anthony.”
Vincent looked at his brother.
Anthony shrugged.
“You were busy.”
Sofia had helped Isabella trace Blake’s operation.
But after Isabella died, Sofia panicked.
She believed Vincent had ordered it.
He closed his eyes.
“Blake told you.”
“He didn’t need to.”
Sofia’s voice shook.
“You were Dad’s son.”
That sentence probably hurt more than accusation.
Sofia continued.
She stayed away.
But she kept watching.
Then eighteen months ago, she noticed unusual chemical purchases connected to one of Blake’s shell companies.
Destination?
Moretti estate maintenance contractor.
She sent warnings.
“To who?” I asked.
“Daniel.”
He ignored the first two.
Then responded.
That was when he began suspecting the ventilation system.
“Why didn’t you contact police?”
“Because Blake had people everywhere.”
“What about the boys?”
Sofia looked toward them through the glass.
“I didn’t know the chemical was reaching them until three months ago.”
Vincent stood abruptly.
“Three months?”
“Yes.”
“You knew my sons were being poisoned for three months and didn’t call me?”
Sofia flinched.
His old voice had returned.
Commanding.
Accusing.
She stepped back.
Vincent saw it.
He stopped.
Everything inside him changed.
“I’m sorry.”
He lowered his voice.
“Why didn’t you call me?”
Sofia stared.
Then answered.
“Because I still thought you might be the one doing it.”
That silence was brutal.
Vincent sat again.
“I deserved that.”
Sofia cried then.
So did Anthony.
Vincent did not.
But his eyes were wet.
Blake had spent years surviving because the Moretti family’s greatest weakness was not violence.
It was mistrust.
Everyone expected betrayal.
So betrayal became easy to manufacture.
Sofia produced records that transformed the case.
Chemical orders.
Blake’s private research notes.
Correspondence showing he had intentionally designed the twins’ exposure protocol.
But one message was not from Blake.
It was from an unknown account.
If the boys remember the beach house, increase exposure.
Signed:
C.
Vincent stared.
“Carlo?”
Anthony shook his head.
“Dad was already dead.”
Someone else.
A person with C.
Someone who knew the boys.
Someone monitoring Blake.
Someone above him.
Sofia looked at Vincent.
“Harrison wasn’t the mastermind.”
Vincent’s expression darkened.
“Who was?”
“I don’t know.”
Then Lucas, playing nearby with Leo, looked up.
“Claire?”
“What?”
“Dr. Blake talked to a lady.”
Everyone froze.
“What lady?”
“At our birthday.”
Vincent looked at him.
“What birthday?”
“The one with the magician.”
Their sixth birthday.
A year before symptoms began.
Leo nodded.
“The lady gave him the silver box.”
My skin prickled.
“What did she look like?”
Lucas thought.
“Old.”
Anthony laughed despite everything.
“How old?”
“Like Claire.”
I stared.
“I’m thirty-four.”
Lucas shrugged.
“Old.”
Not useful.
Then Leo said, “She had red hair.”
Vincent went still.
Anthony too.
Sofia whispered, “No.”
I looked between them.
“Who?”
May you like
Vincent’s face had lost all color.
“Our mother.”
