The Moretti Daughter They Denied

The bone-china espresso cup slipped from my hand and shattered outside my father's study.

The conversation inside stopped.

I stood beneath the hallway lights, shaking so hard from fever that my teeth clicked. White porcelain lay around my shoes, the painted Moretti crest split down the middle.

My mother opened the door and looked at the broken cup before looking at me.

“Serena, what is wrong with you? It's the middle of the night.”

My skin burned with a fever of nearly 103 degrees. I had one hand against the wall just to remain standing.

She noticed none of it.

“I came down for water,” I said. “It slipped.”

Behind her, my father remained at his desk.

Matteo Moretti was the Don who controlled Chicago's most powerful Mafia family. Later that week,he would induct Bianca into the Moretti council as his chosen successor.

But I had just heard the truth.

Bianca was adopted.

I was their biological daughter.

For eighteen years, they had lied about my birth so I would surrender everything to her without fighting back.

My mother folded her arms. “Clean this up before you wake Bianca. She needs to rest before her induction.”

My father's voice came from the study.

“Make sure she gets every piece. I don't want her causing another scene at the gala.”

I crouched to collect the porcelain. The floor tilted beneath me, and dark spots swam across my vision.

A sharp edge sliced my finger.

Blood dripped onto the pale runner. My bone marrow was failing, and my blood could barely clot. Within seconds, my palm was covered.

My mother finally noticed.

“Serena, did you do that deliberately?”

I looked up at her.

“Bianca chose this runner for her induction photographs. Are you trying to ruin tomorrow because you're jealous of her?”

She didn't ask why I couldn't stop bleeding. She only saw another threat to Bianca.

For eighteen years, I had lived in the Moretti estate like a thief afraid of taking something that wasn't mine.

I wore Bianca's old school uniforms instead of asking for new clothes. I worked after hours in Moretti restaurants instead of asking for an allowance. I learned to hide illness because needing anything made me greedy.

Now I knew my parents had stripped me of my name, protection, and place in the Family so Bianca would never have to feel like an outsider.

“I'm sorry,” I said, closing my hand around the cut. “I'll clean it.”

“You should be sorry.” My mother's expression hardened. “And don't start imagining we owe you something because Bianca is becoming Matteo's heir. The Morettis have already given you more than you deserve.”

She shut the door in my face.

I scrubbed my blood from the runner, then climbed the back staircase to my room above the garage.

The estate had twelve bedrooms, most of them empty. I slept in a former maid's room because Bianca said seeing me in the main house reminded her of losing her birth parents.

My parents moved me out that same day.

Even the estate security plan excluded me. If the compound was attacked, no guard was assigned to evacuate the girl who supposedly carried no Moretti blood.

I lay on the narrow bed and pressed an old towel against my hand.

Nine days earlier, Dr. Asha Patel had handed me my test results at Cook County Medical Center.

“High-risk acute lymphoblastic leukemia,” she said. “Your bone marrow is failing, and you're already fighting an infection. We need to admit you immediately.”

She turned to the next page.

“If you respond to treatment, a stem-cell transplant may give you a chance. We need to test your biological parents and any full siblings. Can you contact them?”

I shook my head.

“I don't have biological family.”

According to my father, I had been abandoned at a church-run children's home. The Morettis had never formally adopted me because my unknown origins didn't deserve a place in the Family archive.

So I left the hospital alone.

I searched public DNA databases for relatives and used seven years of savings to prepay for the cheapest cremation in Chicago.

I never told the Morettis I was dying. They had taught me that I had no right to ask for their blood.

Now I knew two possible donors had been living beneath the same roof all along, but after hearing why they had lied, I couldn't bring myself to ask them for anything.

By morning, the bleeding had slowed.

I washed my hand, pulled on my old wool coat, and went downstairs as usual.

Bianca sat at the dining table in an ivory cashmere dress. At her throat was the obsidian brooch my grandfather had worn when he led the Moretti council.

It marked the chosen successor.

When I was eight, I had asked my father whether I might wear it someday.

He told me an adopted child had no right to something that belonged to Moretti blood.

Now Bianca was wearing it.

“Morning, Sera.” She studied my face. “You look awful.”

“I don't feel well.”

She pushed her half-finished orange juice toward me. “You can have this. I don't want the rest.”

Before I could touch it, my mother handed the glass to a maid.

“Pour it out. Serena looks contagious, and Bianca can't get sick before the gala.”

Leukemia wasn't contagious, but explaining that would have required someone to care.

I placed Bianca's revised induction speech beside her plate. I had rewritten it so she would sound as though she understood the businesses she was about to inherit.

My father lowered his newspaper.

“Where are you going?”

“I have an appointment in the city.”

“Cancel it. Someone needs to check Bianca's gown and the guest list.”

“I already finished the guest list.”

“Then go with her and carry what she needs.”

I tightened my grip on my bag.

“Am I invited to the gala?”

The table fell silent.

“Every Moretti captain and allied family will be there,” my father said. “What exactly would your place be?”

I looked at the brooch around Bianca's throat.

“Of course.”

My mother frowned at my coat. “Where are you going dressed like that?”

“To take care of something.”

“Don't waste the day on some charitable stunt because you're jealous of Bianca. Donating a few dollars won't make you less ungrateful.”

I didn't explain.

I walked beyond the estate gates and called the city's low-cost cremation service.

“Grant Memorial Services,” a woman answered. “How can I help you?”

“I prepaid for a direct cremation under the name Serena Moretti. I need to confirm something.”

“Of course.”

I looked back at the estate.

“If no relatives claim my body, how long will you keep my ashes in the public columbarium?”