Chapter 4 - The Ghost of Bianca Moretti
I didn't sleep that night.
The guest suite was larger than the entire two-bedroom apartment my mother and I shared in the Bronx, filled with silk sheets, a marble fireplace, and tall French doors opening onto a private terrace.
Every time I closed my eyes, I heard my father’s laughter at the piano, followed by the terrifying sight of Alessandro Moretti standing up from his dinner table as if he had seen a demon.
At dawn, a quiet knock sounded on the heavy mahogany door.
Nonna Rosa entered carrying a silver breakfast tray lined with fresh espresso, warm croissants, and a folded copy of the morning edition of the New York Post.
The entire front cover was a grainy, high-definition photograph of me singing on the stage at Vetro Nero, with Alessandro looking up at me like a man hypnotized.
The headline blared across the newsstands in bold red type: THE MAFIA KING’S WAITRESS QUEEN: MORETTI ANNOUNCES SURPRISE WEDDING AFTER OPERATIC WAGER.
“Drink your coffee, child,” Nonna Rosa said gently, setting the tray on the writing desk. “You have a long day ahead of you.”
“Why is he doing this, Rosa?” I asked, gripping the edge of the velvet armchair. “If he wants to protect me from whoever killed my father, why announce a marriage to the entire world?”
The old woman paused, her wrinkled hands smoothing her apron, a look of profound sorrow crossing her face.
“Because nobody dares to touch the bride of Alessandro Moretti,” Rosa explained quietly. “As a nameless waitress in the Bronx, you could disappear into an unmarked grave and nobody in power would blink an eye. But as the future Mrs. Moretti, an attack on you is a declaration of war against three syndicates.”
She walked toward the door, then stopped, looking back over her shoulder.
“He loved his sister Bianca more than life itself,” she whispered. “When she died, the warmth in this house died with her. Last night was the first time in ten years I saw a spark of life in his eyes.”
An hour later, Alessandro summoned me to his private study on the third floor.
The room smelled of old leather, pipe tobacco, and cedar. Behind a massive mahogany desk, Alessandro stood staring at an antique oil portrait hanging on the wall.
The painting depicted a beautiful young woman with dark, flowing curls and bright green eyes, holding a silver music box.
“Bianca,” I said softly, stepping into the room.
Alessandro didn't turn around, but his posture straightened. “She was nineteen. She wanted to sing at La Scala in Milan. Your father was coaching her for her final audition.”
“What happened to them, Alessandro?” I asked, walking closer until I stood beside him beneath the painting. “The police told my mother my father drowned in an accident.”
Alessandro let out a harsh, bitter chuckle that was devoid of humor.
“The police were paid two hundred thousand dollars to look the other way,” he said, his voice dropping into that chilling, dangerous register.
He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a weathered manila folder, tossing it onto the leather blotter between us.
Inside were crime scene photographs that had never seen the light of a courtroom: a shattered black sedan on the docks of Red Hook, bullet casings scattered across the wet asphalt, and a blood-stained sheet of music bearing my father’s handwritten notes.
“My uncle, Don Carmine Moretti, wanted control of our family’s European shipping routes,” Alessandro explained, his jaw clenching like iron.
“He believed Bianca’s connection to high society through her music would allow me to build legitimate political alliances that would push him out of power. So he arranged an ambush on the docks while your father was driving her home from a late rehearsal.”
Tears burned the back of my eyelids as the horrific truth sank into my bones.
My father hadn't abandoned us. He hadn't died in a random, tragic accident.
He was murdered because he had spent his life protecting an innocent girl’s dream.
“Carmine thought he wiped the board clean that night,” Alessandro continued, turning his fierce gaze onto me. “He thought the music was buried. And then last night, you walked into his favorite restaurant and sang Bianca’s audition piece in front of his closest allies.”
May you like
“Is Carmine in New York right now?” I whispered, my heart slamming against my ribs.
“He will be at the cathedral on Saturday,” Alessandro said, a cold, predatory smile spreading across his chiseled face. “Sitting in the front row, waiting to see if his nephew is foolish enough to marry a ghost.”
