My Eight Brothers Treasured the Fake Heiress

On the night of my 17th birthday, everyone at the Moretti estate was throwing a party for "Elena Moretti." Meanwhile, the real Elena—me—had been locked underground beneath an old house on the vineyard for the past nine years.

I sat on the floor at the back of the wine cellar, my back pressed against the cold stone wall. Every so often, the party above broke through the silence—tires crunching over gravel, distant music, then the boom of fireworks.

A flash of red slipped through the tiny vent high above me. It was barely wide enough to fit a hand. A second later, the light was gone.

Every year, Leon made sure her birthday was perfect. I couldn't see the main house from where I was, only hear bursts of laughter in the distance. But I knew exactly what it looked like tonight.

The long table would be covered in white linen. My mother's favorite deep-red roses would be arranged by the fireplace. And in the center of the dining room would sit a silver place card with a single name on it.

Elena Moretti. My name.

Before I turned eight, I'd never imagined someone could simply take my name and wear it like it belonged to them.

My mother had eight sons before she had me. When I was little, my father always joked that I was the most useless of my siblings. My brothers had to learn how to shoot, negotiate, keep accounts, and survive in a world where no one backed down. My only job was not to fall off a horse.

Naturally, I fell.

I was six. The fall left a nasty gash on my left wrist. Gabriel stitched me up while I screamed loud enough for the entire infirmary to hear. Luca stood in the doorway, looking like he was in more pain than I was.

The next day, the man who'd picked out the horse for me was replaced.

When my father heard about it, he scolded Luca. "She climbed onto the horse herself. Replacing the man won't change that."

Luca didn't argue. He just pulled me onto his lap and said quietly, "Next time you want to ride, come get me first."

Pleased with myself, I threw my arms around his neck and asked, "What if bad guys take me away?"

He frowned and gently pushed me back so he could look at me.

"No one can take you away from us."

The year I turned eight, my parents' convoy was ambushed on its way back to the estate from the city. I remember only flashes: blinding headlights, exploding glass, the driver's body slamming down on top of me, and someone dragging me through the door of the overturned car. I thought one of my brothers' men had come for me. Then a hand pressed a chemical-soaked cloth over my face. When I woke, I was underground. Vito Caro, my father's most trusted advisor, told me my parents were dead. He also said my eight brothers were too busy holding the Moretti family together to deal with a frightened little girl who had started talking nonsense.

At first, I didn't believe him. I kicked the door, smashed cups, and cried until my voice gave out. Over and over, I told the guards my name was Elena and I was Luca's sister.

I told them I'd scribbled all over a wall in the room at the east end of the third floor. I told them exactly what Samuel had been punished for when he sneaked our father's liquor as a child. I told them there was a pearl brooch with a broken clasp at the bottom of my mother's jewelry box.

They only stared at me.

Later, I learned that Vito had already given me a different identity. Eva.

An emotionally unstable orphan under the Morettis' protection who liked to imagine she was their daughter.

Eight months later, Vito brought his own daughter into the main house.

Sophia Caro.

She was my age, and back then, she even looked a little like me. Vito cut her hair, made her memorize letters my mother had written, and produced a DNA test that looked completely legitimate. Then he presented her to my brothers, who had just lost our parents and taken on the weight of the entire family almost overnight.

They believed him.

I wouldn't learn how he'd done it until much later. But it didn't take long for me to see what came of it.

The old house wasn't far from the main estate. On clear days, I could see a small patch of the main house's roof through the vent.

One Christmas, I saw the main house covered in lights. The guard had been drinking, and he laughed as he told me the young miss wanted a full-sized Christmas tree brought in from the north, so Samuel had sent men out that very night to find one.

I sat in the corner, hugging my knees, and said nothing for a long time.

Samuel had always hated running errands for people when he was little. But for her, he was willing to do it.

And things like that kept happening.

She moved into my old room. She wore the dresses my mother had saved for me and the jewelry my brothers brought back for her year after year. At 13, she attended her first family dinner, and everyone called her Miss Moretti.

On her 15th birthday, Leon made sure half the city knew his little sister loved white tulips.

But I hated white. Sophia was the one who loved it.

That was also the year she finally admitted that she knew exactly who I was.

She came down through the underground passage, found the note I'd hidden inside a record sleeve, and set it on fire right in front of me.

As the flames licked across the words "Samuel, I'm in the old wine cellar," she stared at me for a long time.

"Stop writing these."

She didn't sound guilty.

"Who'd believe you if you went out there now?"

I didn't answer. She laughed.

"They've been calling me Elena for seven years."

From that day on, she stopped pretending she didn't know the truth. Tonight, we were both 17. The party ended later than usual. By the time the underground door rattled, I had dozed off against the wall. When the metal bolt slid back, I sat up on reflex. My clenched fingers loosened only when I saw Sophia coming down. She still wore the black gown. It had belonged to my mother. It fit Sophia much better now than it had when she used to sneak it on as a child. A tiny silver pendant hung around her neck. When I was little, I always wanted to touch it, but my mother said my hands were sticky with candy and refused to let me.

Sophia wore the pendant as if it had always belonged to her. She carried a slice of cake in one hand and a silver place card in the other. She walked over and set the card in front of me.

"See it?"

I didn't move. She pushed the card a little closer.

"Elena Moretti."

I looked down at the name, printed in elegant letters. Sophia seemed disappointed by my lack of reaction, so she placed the cake on the edge of the table too. This time, she didn't leave it out of reach. She pushed it close enough for me to take.

But she took the fork.

"Eat," she said.

I looked up at her.

"What? You don't want it?"

I still said nothing. She sat across from me, her skirt spreading over the dusty stone floor. She didn't seem to care about the dirt.

"I used to tell myself you were too young to understand. I thought you'd figure it out once you got older."

She tapped the place card with one fingernail.

"It's been nine years. How do you still not get it?"

"Get what?" I asked. The question caught her off guard. I hardly ever spoke to her. Then she smiled.

"That this name isn't yours anymore."

I stared at her. Sophia tilted her chin up, wearing the same entitled look she always did when someone gave up their seat for her at the family table.

"This is the Moretti family, not some normal household. You really think you can walk in with a birth certificate, wave that little pendant around, and take everything back?"

"Why is the name Elena worth anything?"

She pointed up.

"Because when I walk out that door, I have eight brothers with guns behind me."

"Because if anyone out there so much as looks at me wrong, the first thing my brothers ask is whether they have a death wish."

"Because Luca keeps me by his side. Samuel calls me Ellie. Leon throws me a birthday party every year."

She paused. There was no hatred in her eyes. Just the quiet certainty of someone who had lived another person's life for so long, she'd started to believe it was hers.

"Whoever the Moretti family protects is the real one."

Her words hurt less than all the times she had told me no one would believe me. Still, I was exhausted. For nine years, I had tried to prove her wrong. I had hidden notes, tried to escape through the underground passage, carved my name into the wooden crates that carried wine up to the house, and begged a drunken guard to take a message to Luca. Nothing worked. Upstairs, year after year, they kept calling her Elena. Sophia stood and took the fork with her.

"The cake's for you."

At the door, she looked back at me.

"I'm just sharing a little of what my brothers gave me."

The door closed again. The bolt slid into place, but this time, I didn't throw myself at the door like I used to. I stayed where I was and stared at the cake.

Elena was written across the frosting too.

When I was little, I hated it when someone cut through my name first. Samuel used to do it on purpose, just so I'd chase him all over the house.

And suddenly, I remembered what Luca had once told me. He said, no one can take me away.

I lowered my head with a faint smile.

So even promises had an expiration date.

I closed my eyes and whispered his name in my mind.

Luca. Have you forgotten me already?