Chapter 25 - luca read the letter his grandfather had written before he was born
At fourteen, Luca found the leather box.
Not secretly.
We were cleaning my office.
He lifted my father’s envelope.
For Matteo—if family loyalty ever begins to feel like fear.
“What’s this?”
I froze.
Then smiled sadly.
“Your grandfather.”
“The warning?”
He knew there had been one.
Not the exact words.
“Can I read it?”
I hesitated.
The letter was mine.
But it was also part of the chain that explained his history.
“Yes.”
Luca sat on the floor.
Read.
My father had written about Viola’s obsession with Moretti control.
Trust incentives.
Carlo.
Then Luca reached the line I had memorized.
If Carlo ever acts, do not assume it began with him. He confuses obedience with love.
Luca read it again.
“Grandpa knew.”
“Some of it.”
“Why didn’t he stop her?”
Hard question.
“I don’t know everything.”
“That’s annoying.”
“Yes.”
I sat beside him.
“He pushed back privately.”
“Warned me.”
“But he stayed inside the system.”
Luca looked toward the trust files.
“So he was scared too.”
Maybe.
I had spent years seeing my father only as the soft victim beside my controlling mother.
That was too simple.
He had power.
Less than Viola emotionally.
Still power.
“He may have been.”
“And he may have chosen peace too often.”
Luca nodded.
“Like you before the fire.”
The sentence hurt.
“Yes.”
No defense.
Luca continued reading.
At the end he asked:
“Do I have to take over any of this?”
“What?”
“Family stuff.”
“The trust.”
“Companies.”
“Council.”
There it was.
Fourteen years of adults calling him heir in documents he never chose.
“No.”
He stared.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“You can apply for roles someday if you want.”
“You can work somewhere else.”
“You can sell assets you legally control when the structure permits.”
“You can keep them.”
“You can ignore half the family if that keeps you sane.”
He almost smiled.
“What did Grandpa want?”
“My father?”
“Yes.”
“I think he wanted the family safer than he knew how to make it.”
“That’s not a career.”
“No.”
Luca handed back the letter.
“I don’t know what I want.”
“Good.”
He frowned.
“Good?”
“You’re fourteen.”
“I would be concerned if you had a forty-year strategic plan.”
He laughed.
Then:
“Grandma probably had one for me.”
My smile disappeared.
“Yes.”
He noticed.
“Sorry.”
“No.”
I looked at him.
“That’s why I’m glad you don’t.”
The Moretti family had spent generations treating the future like property.
May you like
For once, uncertainty felt healthy.
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