Chapter 9 - The Web of Deceit
Three weeks passed. Life at the Caruso estate slowly settled into a new, peaceful routine.
Luca and Nico returned to their private school, their laughter once again echoing through the high-ceilinged corridors of the grand house. Clara’s quiet, solemn demeanor began to melt away, replaced by the innocent curiosity of a six-year-old girl. Vincent had personally taken her to the finest tailor in the city to fix her worn stuffed rabbit, replacing its missing glass eye with a polished black onyx bead.
On a chilly Tuesday evening, Marcus Hale entered Vincent’s private library carrying a thick, leather-bound binder.
"Boss," Marcus said, setting the binder on the desk. "We finished the full audit of your father’s old personal accounts from the late nineties."
Vincent pushed his paperwork aside, looking up. "Did you find anything unusual?"
"Nothing about Michael," Marcus replied, leaning against the leather chair. "Marcus Hale’s name was completely cleared on the Swiss transfers. But we did find an old safety deposit box registered under your father's name at the Continental Bank downtown."
"What was inside?" Vincent asked.
Marcus opened the binder, pulling out a sealed yellow envelope stamped with the old Caruso family seal. "The bank manager said your father left strict instructions that this envelope was only to be opened by you on your forty-second birthday—or upon Michael’s death."
Vincent took the envelope. He broke the heavy wax seal with his silver pocket knife and pulled out a single sheet of heavy parchment paper written in his father’s dark, sweeping handwriting.
Vincent read the lines slowly:
To my son Vincent,
If you are reading this letter, it means the secret I buried fifteen years ago has finally surfaced. I knew Michael was working with the Moretti family long before the warehouse fire. I knew he intended to kill me and take the family throne.
I did not set the fire that burned my eldest son, but I allowed him to believe I did. I let him hide in Europe because I knew his rage would eventually make him careless. I knew he would try to strike at you when you reached forty-two—the exact age I was when I took control of Chicago.
I chose you, Vincent, not because you were obedient, but because you possess something Michael never had: a heart that values blood over power. Protect the family. Protect the bloodline.
Don Salvatore Caruso.
Vincent held the letter for a long moment, the parchment heavy in his hands. The pain and resentment he had carried for fifteen years felt as though it was slowly lifting, replaced by a quiet, settled truth.
"Boss?" Marcus asked quietly. "Is everything alright?"
May you like
Vincent folded the letter carefully, placing it inside the center drawer of his desk beside Michael’s silver watch.
"Everything is fine, Marcus," Vincent said, standing up and putting on his beige suit jacket. "Have the car brought round. I promised Clara we would pick up the boys from soccer practice together."
