Chapter 9 - My Sister Does Not Move Into Belladonna
I made the first relational mistake quickly.
Three days after the gala, I told Isabella:
“You can stay at Belladonna until this is resolved.”
She stared.
“I have an apartment.”
“I know.”
“Then why would I stay here?”
“For security.”
“From what?”
Fair.
“Media. Vivian. People connected to old records.”
“Has anyone threatened me?”
“No.”
“So no.”
I paused.
Then:
“Fine.”
She almost smiled.
“Was that difficult?”
“Yes.”
She laughed for the first time around me.
Then I made it worse.
“I can have a driver available.”
“No.”
“Not following you. Available.”
“No.”
“Isabella.”
“Vincent.”
That was new.
She continued:
“My mother spent twenty-eight years afraid the Morettis would decide what happened to her. I found out three days ago I may be one of you. Don’t make the first lesson that you decide where I sleep.”
There.
I shut up.
She kept her apartment.
Kept working through the staffing agency temporarily.
Although after the gala video leaked—partially—she received enough attention that the agency placed her on paid administrative leave for a week.
Not because she had done wrong.
Client safety.
Press.
She hated it.
I offered to cover lost wages.
She refused.
The agency later paid her under policy.
Good.
No billionaire rescue check.
We began meeting at Dana Whitcomb’s office.
Neutral.
Not Belladonna.
At first Isabella called me:
Mr. Moretti.
Then Vincent.
Never brother.
Not yet.
DNA testing came next.
Accredited laboratory.
Chain of custody.
Isabella.
Me.
Our mothers were different and documented.
Result:
Approximately twenty-five percent shared autosomal DNA, consistent with a half-sibling relationship.
Not absolute proof that Antonio specifically was our shared parent.
But combined with ages, Teresa’s history, Antonio’s relationship with her, family documents, and absence of another plausible shared parent, it was strong.
Probate counsel said:
“Enough to pursue a declaration.”
I said:
“I won’t contest.”
Isabella looked at me.
“You don’t have to make it easy.”
“I’m not being generous.”
“What?”
“If you’re Antonio’s daughter, the record should say so.”
She looked down.
That was the first time I saw her cry.
Not dramatically.
One tear.
Then another.
She wiped them.
“I wish Mom had told me before strangers did.”
Teresa sat across the room.
May you like
And suddenly paternity was not the largest betrayal in it.
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