Vivian raised the strap a second time.

He called his attorney at seven the next morning.

Dominic Reale had been handling Moretti family affairs for thirty years.

He answered on the second ring, which meant he had already heard something.

"Vincent."

"You know why I'm calling."

A pause.

"I heard the party was cancelled."

"I need the household records from the summer of 2001.

Staff rosters, payment records, any correspondence my mother sent through the family account.

And I need the name of every attorney who handled my father's personal affairs that year."

Another pause.

Longer.

"Vincent, some of those records are sealed."

"Sealed by whom?"

"Your father made certain arrangements before he passed.

There are documents he designated as private.

I'm bound by—"

"Dominic." Vincent's voice stayed level.

"My father has been gone for six years.

Whatever he was protecting, he is no longer here to protect it.

I am the primary heir.

I am asking you, as your current client, to tell me what is in those records."

Silence on the line.

Then: "Come to my office.

Not over the phone."

He was there by nine.

Dominic's office was on the fourteenth floor of a building that had housed the same law firm for fifty years.

The furniture was dark wood and the windows were tall and the whole place smelled faintly of paper and old decisions.

Dominic himself was seventy, white-haired, and had the expression of a man who had been waiting a long time for a conversation he did not want to have.

He had a folder on the desk when Vincent sat down.

"Your father came to me in the autumn of 2001," Dominic said.

"He had a situation he needed managed quietly."

"A woman named Elena Reyes."

Dominic's eyes moved to the folder.

"She had been employed by the household that summer.

There was — a complication."

"A child."

"Your father denied it.

He maintained his denial until the end." Dominic opened the folder.

"But your mother did not deny it.

She came to me separately, in December of that year.

She wanted to make arrangements for the woman and the child.

Financial support, travel documents, a settlement.

She paid for it herself, from her personal account.

She did not tell your father."

"And Elena agreed."

"She didn't have many options.

She was young, she was alone, and your father had made it clear that if she stayed, he would make her life very difficult." Dominic's voice was dry and careful.

"Your mother was kinder.

She gave her enough to start over.

She asked only one thing in return."

"That she keep the child's existence quiet."

"And that if anything ever happened to your mother, Elena would find a way to reach you." He looked up.

"Not your father.

You specifically."

Vincent sat back.

"She knew my father would bury it."

"She knew your father would do whatever was necessary to protect the family name." Dominic closed the folder.

"She trusted you to do something different."

"And you kept this for thirty years."

"I kept it because I was bound by your father's instructions and because your mother asked me to wait until you were ready." He pushed the folder across the desk.

"I think last night qualifies."

Vincent opened it.

Inside: a letter in his mother's handwriting.

A photograph — the same young woman, but older than the one in the locket, taken a few years later.

A copy of a wire transfer.

A single page that appeared to be a private DNA test, dated 2003, with two names at the top.

Giulio Moretti.

Clara Elena Reyes.

The result was not ambiguous.

"My father had this done," Vincent said.

"He wanted to know for certain before he decided how to handle it."

"And then he buried it."

"He sealed it with my office and told me it was never to be opened." Dominic folded his hands on the desk.

"He also made a separate arrangement, which I am obligated to tell you about now that you've asked.

He set up a trust.

A small one.

In Clara's name.

He never contacted her.

He never acknowledged her.

But he funded the trust every year until he died."

Vincent looked up from the folder.

"He knew," he said.

"He always knew."

"He just chose to pretend she didn't exist."

"Yes."

Vincent set the folder down.

He looked out the tall window at the city below — the ordinary morning of it, people moving to work, taxis, coffee carts, the whole indifferent machinery of a day that had no idea what was sitting in this room.

"What does Clara need to do to claim what's hers?" he asked.

"The DNA test on file is thirty years old.

She would need a current one to satisfy the estate requirements.

But given what's already documented—" Dominic paused.

"It would not be a difficult case, Vincent.

It would be a very short one."

"Then let's make it short." He stood.

"One more thing.

Vivian Castellano had access to my mother's personal correspondence.

She knew about Elena.

She used her cousin's agency to place Clara at the party last night." He picked up the folder.

"I want to know what else she accessed.