Chapter 6 - Damian’s Last Weapon
Marcus told me not to listen.
“He is desperate.”
“I know.”
“He wants control.”
“I know.”
“Then don’t give it to him.”
But Damian had known me my entire life.
He knew exactly which weapon worked.
Dad.
I agreed to receive a written statement through his attorney.
No meeting.
No call.
The letter arrived sealed.
Damian’s handwriting looked almost unchanged from when we were teenagers.
Elena,
Dad lied to you about Mom.
If you help send me away for the rest of my life, maybe you deserve to know the truth too.
Mom didn’t die the way you think.
I stopped reading.
My mother, Maria Moretti, died when I was fourteen.
Car accident.
Rain.
A curve near Bedford.
Dad told us her car lost traction.
Damian was seventeen.
He remembered more than I did.
I continued.
Dad was with her that night.
They were arguing.
He followed her in his truck.
Ask Marcus about the police file.
My hands shook.
Marcus read it.
His face changed.
“You know something.”
“Elena—”
“You know.”
“I know there was an investigation.”
“What investigation?”
“Your mother’s crash.”
“Was Dad involved?”
“No charges were filed.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Marcus looked tired.
“Victor once told me he followed Maria because they had argued. She drove away upset. He followed because he was worried.”
“Did he cause the crash?”
“He said no.”
“What did police say?”
“I never saw the complete file.”
We requested it.
Old records took time.
Damian’s lawyers used the delay publicly.
Anonymous leaks appeared online suggesting Victor Moretti had a “violent history.”
I wanted to scream.
Even dead, Dad was being put on trial by the son accused of killing him.
The file finally arrived.
Mom’s crash report.
Wet road.
No collision marks from another car.
Victor’s truck arrived seven minutes after a witness called emergency services.
A neighbor confirmed hearing an argument earlier.
Dad admitted following Mom.
He denied tailgating or forcing her off the road.
The reconstruction found no evidence another vehicle caused the crash.
Damian’s “secret” was technically true.
Dad had hidden that he followed Mom after an argument.
But there was no evidence he killed her.
Marcus looked at me.
“This is what Damian does.”
“What?”
“He takes one true thing and wraps a lie around it.”
Exactly.
Dad should have told me.
That hurt.
But the truth was not the story Damian wanted.
Still, the discovery forced me to see Dad differently.
Victor wasn’t perfect.
He got angry.
He hid painful things.
He protected Damian far too long.
He failed to confront problems until they grew dangerous.
But imperfection wasn’t murder.
And imperfection didn’t erase love.
When Damian realized his letter failed, he tried another approach.
He offered to plead guilty to assault and fraud if prosecutors dropped murder.
They refused.
Then he blamed Vanessa entirely.
She retaliated with recordings.
Apparently she recorded Damian almost as often as Brooklyn recorded Melissa in another family’s nightmare.
One audio file became crucial.
Three weeks before Dad died:
VANESSA: What if your father calls the police?
DAMIAN: He won’t get the chance.
VANESSA: What does that mean?
DAMIAN: It means stop asking questions.
Another:
DAMIAN: Once Dad is gone, Elena is the only problem.
VANESSA: She’ll sign.
DAMIAN: She better.
These weren’t confessions.
But combined with Leo Marsh, the pills, the motive, and the timeline, prosecutors believed the case was strong.
Hudson Crest executive Graham Pike negotiated immunity for cooperation.
He testified that Damian had told him:
“My father’s health is about to stop being an obstacle.”
Graham claimed he thought Damian meant Dad would retire.
Nobody in the courtroom believed that interpretation.
Federal indictments hit Darren Carter and Hudson Crest executives.
News exploded.
The “Moretti house case” became a regional scandal.
I hated the name.
It made Dad’s death sound like entertainment.
Marcus tried to shield me.
I kept working.
Patients didn’t care about headlines.
A woman recovering from knee surgery still needed help climbing stairs.
An elderly man still needed exercises after hip replacement.
Ordinary work saved me.
Then probate court issued a major ruling.
The revised will was valid.
Damian’s documented theft triggered the forfeiture clause.
He lost his inheritance.
Dad’s company shares went into the community trust.
Half of annual profits would support employees.
The other half would fund restoration grants for historic homes owned by lower-income families.
I cried when Marcus explained it.
“That sounds like Dad.”
“Yes.”
“What about the house?”
“Still entirely yours.”
I looked toward the wooded property.
For months it had felt cursed.
Dad dead.
Damian violent.
Developers circling.
I wanted to sell it immediately.
Then Marcus asked:
“What would Victor want?”
That annoyed me.
“I’m tired of everyone asking what Dad would want.”
“You’re right.”
“It’s mine.”
“Yes.”
That word mattered.
Mine.
I could sell.
Keep.
Donate.
Burn it down.
Not literally—Marcus made me promise.
But the choice belonged to me.
I decided not to decide yet.
Then, six months after Dad’s death, the murder trial date was set.
The prosecution listed me as a witness.
Damian would see me in court.
May you like
For the first time since he pinned me to the floor, I would stand in the same room with him.
This time, he wouldn’t be above me.
