Chapter 9 - The Last Will
Moreva knelt beside his father, his large hand enveloping the patriarch's frail, cold fingers. For the first time, Clara saw something break beneath Moreva’s impassive facade—a crack in the marble armor that revealed the boy who had once idolized the ruler of this empire.
"Hold on, old man," Moreva commanded, but the authority had stripped away, leaving only raw desperation. "The car is less than two hundred meters away. I will carry you."
Vittorio shook his head with infinite slowness. A faint, rattling wheeze escaped his cracked lips. He turned his watering gaze from Moreva to Clara, his trembling fingers releasing Moreva's hand to weakly grasp Clara’s burgundy apron once more.
With agonizing effort, Vittorio hooked his thumb into the hidden seam of his velvet smoking jacket. Clara leaned in, realizing the old man was trying to tear the lining.
"Help him," Moreva said, his voice hoarse.
Clara reached into the seam, her fingers finding a folded piece of parchment, stiff with age and sealed with red wax bearing the Moreva crest. She drew it out, her hands smeared with soot and sweat.
Vittorio forced his lips together, his jaw working frantically until a single, broken word tore from his throat:
"Name... him..."
The effort exhausted the last reserve of his failing heart. Vittorio’s head slumped sideways against Moreva’s broad chest, his rheumy eyes drifting shut. His final breath left him in a long, quiet sigh that seemed to drain the remaining warmth from the stone corridor.
Don Vittorio Moreva was dead.
Moreva remained motionless for a long moment, his forehead pressed against his father’s still shoulder. The damp chill of the cellar deepened around them, smelling of cordite, blood, and the finality of an ending dynasty.
Slowly, Moreva stood. He did not look at Julian's body, nor did he look at Mercer, who had lost consciousness from blood loss a few yards away. He turned his gaze entirely to the folded parchment in Clara’s trembling hands.
"Open it," Moreva said quietly.
Clara broke the brittle wax. Inside, written in Vittorio’s shaky, elegant calligraphy dated three days before his stroke, was a single legal decree witnessed by the diocese of San Pietro.
It did not bequeath the syndicate to Moreva. It did not bequeath the estates to Julian.
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It transferred full legal ownership of the Moreva family trusts, the overseas holdings, and the manor estate to the unborn child of Clara Moreva—appointing only one person as the sole, irrevocable executor and guardian until the child reached manhood.
Clara looked up, her eyes wide with shock. "It isn't you."
