Chapter 4 - A HOUSE WITH TOO MANY LOCKED DOORS
I wanted to go home.
Roman said no.
I told him he couldn’t hold me there.
He agreed.
Then he showed me photographs of the bullet hole through my apartment window.
I stayed.
That irritated me more.
Lucy adapted immediately.
Children are terrifyingly flexible.
By day two, she knew which kitchen cabinet held cookies.
By day three, she had convinced Roman’s head of security, Marco, to teach her chess.
By day four, Roman had ordered a second purple blanket because Iris still slept with Moonie.
Lucy rejected it.
“That’s fake Moonie.”
Roman looked helpless.
I enjoyed that.
Iris improved physically.
Emotionally, she stayed on edge.
Doors made her jump.
Cars made her freeze.
She refused to sleep alone.
At night, I sat beside her until she drifted off.
“You don’t have to,” she said one evening.
“I know.”
“Why do you?”
“Because when I was nineteen, I would have wanted someone to.”
She studied me.
“What happened when you were nineteen?”
“I got pregnant.”
Her eyebrows rose.
“Lucy?”
“Yes.”
“Her dad?”
“Left before she turned two.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
I meant it.
“I spent too long thinking abandonment said something about the person left behind.”
Iris looked toward the window.
“Maybe I do that too.”
“With Roman?”
“No.”
She hesitated.
“My mother.”
I sat closer.
“She loved you.”
“How do you know?”
“I don’t.”
She looked offended.
“Then why say it?”
“Because Roman talks about her like she did.”
That mattered more.
Iris stared at her hands.
“Victor used to tell me Mother loved Ren differently.”
“Because?”
“I was difficult.”
I almost laughed.
“Roman runs organized crime.”
“He was apparently easier.”
Fair point.
Iris continued.
“Victor said I embarrassed Father.”
“How?”
“I asked questions.”
“Terrifying.”
She smiled.
Then it disappeared.
“He said Mother had secrets because of me.”
The note.
Blood.
Trust.
Something ugly was beginning to take shape.
The next day, Roman received legal records from the family trust.
I wasn’t invited to the meeting.
I walked in anyway.
His attorney looked annoyed.
Roman did not.
“Grace.”
“Iris asked me to come.”
True.
Mostly.
A birth certificate lay on the table.
IRIS ELENA BELLANDI
Mother: Elena Bellandi.
Father: Dominic Bellandi.
Normal.
Then Roman placed a second document beside it.
Same child.
Same birth date.
Different certificate number.
Father line blank.
I stared.
“How do you have two birth certificates?”
Roman’s attorney said, “One was filed six days later.”
“Which is valid?”
“The second superseded the first.”
“Why?”
“No explanation.”
Roman stood at the window.
“My father’s name was added after birth.”
“That happen often?”
“No.”
Iris looked sick.
“So Victor was right.”
Roman turned.
“No.”
“The note—”
“We don’t know what it refers to.”
“Ren.”
“Iris.”
“If Father wasn’t my father—”
“You’re still my sister.”
His voice stopped the room.
No hesitation.
No qualification.
Iris began crying.
Roman crossed to her.
She whispered:
“But what if—”
“I don’t care.”
“You have to care.”
“I don’t.”
He knelt.
“Listen to me.”
She did.
“I changed your diapers.”
She laughed through tears.
“You dropped me once.”
“You rolled.”
“You dropped me.”
“Details.”
She smiled.
Roman continued.
“I taught you to ride a bicycle.”
“You pushed me into a hedge.”
“You learned.”
“You’re terrible.”
“Yes.”
Then his voice softened.
“You are my sister.”
I looked away.
Some moments shouldn’t have witnesses.
Later, Roman found me in the hallway.
“You were right.”
“About?”
“Victor.”
My stomach tightened.
“What happened?”
“Our investigator found the hospital clerk who amended Iris’s birth certificate.”
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
“Can she explain?”
“She already did.”
I waited.
Roman’s jaw tightened.
“My father ordered the change.”
“To add his name?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“The clerk said another man was listed originally.”
“Who?”
“She remembers only the surname.”
Roman looked directly at me.
“Mercer.”
The hallway seemed to tilt.
“No.”
“She could be wrong.”
“My father?”
“I don’t know.”
Roman stepped closer.
“Grace.”
“My father was Daniel Mercer.”
“What did he do?”
“Mechanic.”
“Alive?”
“No.”
“When did he die?”
“When I was eleven.”
Roman went quiet.
“When was Iris born?”
“Twenty years ago.”
I did the math.
My father had been alive.
I backed away.
“No.”
Roman did not follow.
“Grace.”
“No.”
If Daniel Mercer had been listed on Iris Bellandi’s original birth certificate—
May you like
then the note might not mean Iris wasn’t Roman’s blood.
It might mean she was mine.
