Chapter 15 - The Truth Isabella Left in Pieces
I did not speak to Luca for six hours.
He did not force me.
That was probably why I eventually did.
We sat in separate rooms at the townhouse while lawyers, federal agents, and child-welfare officials came and went. Noah stayed upstairs with Denise and Dr. Patel. Marcus remained unreachable. Vittorio ignored calls.
I kept seeing Isabella’s signature.
My mother had lost me for three weeks when I was four, and I had no memory of it. Maybe trauma had erased it. Maybe Eleanor had worked so hard to restore normalcy that I had buried the disruption under birthday cakes and school pictures.
Luca found me in the kitchen after midnight.
“I won’t defend her,” he said.
I stared into a cup of tea gone cold.
“Good.”
“I also won’t condemn her until we know what she thought she was signing.”
“That sounds like defense.”
“It sounds like the same uncertainty you gave Marcus.”
I looked at him sharply.
“I did not give Marcus anything.”
“You met him.”
“Because he is my father.”
“And Isabella is my mother.”
The anger left me as quickly as it came.
We sat with that.
Two children of adults who had called secrecy protection.
Finally I said, “I don’t want our baby raised like this.”
Luca looked at me.
“No hidden rooms. No family stories everybody knows except her. No making her carry debts from people who died before she was born.”
“No,” he said.
“You can’t just say no because it sounds good.”
“I’m saying no because I agree.”
“What happens when your family says she belongs to the Morettis?”
“She belongs to herself.”
The answer came too fast to be rehearsed.
I believed him.
A phone rang in the study.
Not Luca’s cell.
An old landline nobody used.
He stood.
“That number isn’t public.”
The phone rang again.
He answered on speaker.
A woman said, “Luca.”
His face emptied.
I knew before he did.
The voice from the recording.
Isabella.
He gripped the desk.
“Where are you?”
“That is not the first question you want to ask.”
“It is the only one I’m asking.”
“I am alive.”
“I noticed.”
Pain sharpened every word.
“I’m sorry.”
“No. You don’t get to spend twenty years dead and open with sorry.”
Silence.
Then Isabella said, “Mara is with you.”
I stepped closer. “Yes.”
Her breath caught.
“You sound like Eleanor.”
“People keep telling me that instead of telling me the truth.”
“I signed the St. Agnes transfer.”
Luca shut his eyes.
“Why?” I asked.
“Because Harrison had already taken you.”
I froze.
“What?”
“The paper you saw was not authorization to remove you from Eleanor. It was authorization to move you out of Harrison’s facility after Marcus surrendered evidence to get you released.”
My knees weakened.
“Then why does it say approved by Harrison?”
“Because he believed you were being moved to another controlled location. Eleanor and I changed the destination after he signed.”
“Where did you take me?”
“To a convent outside Milwaukee for eleven days. Then back to Eleanor.”
I gripped the table.
“Why doesn’t Mom’s letter say any of this?”
“Because she wanted you to have a childhood instead of an inheritance of terror.”
I laughed bitterly. “How did that work out?”
Isabella began crying.
I did not feel cruel.
I felt tired.
Luca said, “Why did you remain dead?”
“Because Carlo learned I had helped Marcus.”
“My father?”
“Yes.”
“You were hiding from him?”
“And Harrison. They were partners until they became rivals. Both wanted the archive.”
“Where are you?”
Isabella hesitated.
Then she gave an address in Evanston.
Luca motioned to Matteo.
“No convoy,” Isabella said immediately. “If Vittorio sees movement, he will know.”
Luca stopped.
“You’re afraid of Vittorio.”
“I am afraid of what he believes he deserves.”
“Which is?”
“The Moretti succession, the archive, and your child.”
My blood went cold.
“Our child is not an asset.”
“I know. He does not.”
A knock sounded at the front door downstairs.
Three sharp knocks.
Matteo checked the camera feed.
His face changed.
“Boss.”
“Who?”
He turned the monitor.
Bianca stood outside alone.
No coat.
No makeup.
One side of her face swollen.
She was clutching a child’s backpack to her chest.
Luca’s expression hardened.
“What is she doing here?”
The intercom activated.
Bianca looked directly at the camera.
“Let me in,” she whispered. “My father is coming for Noah.”
May you like
After Isabella’s call, I went into the nursery Luca had begun preparing without asking me what furniture I wanted. I found him standing in the doorway with an embarrassed expression. “Before you get angry,” he said, “nothing is purchased.” Paint samples, catalog pages, and measurements covered the table. I crossed my arms. “You planned a room.” “I researched a room.” “That is planning with better public relations.” He accepted the correction. “Do you want me to stop?” I looked around. One wall faced the lake. Afternoon light came in softly. There were no cameras, no hidden doors, no locks on the outside. “No,” I said. “But we choose together.” Relief moved through his face. “Together.” I picked up a paint sample. “Not gray.” “I like gray.” “The baby is not joining a law firm.” “Point taken.” The absurdity of arguing about paint after learning our mothers had manipulated identities nearly made me laugh. It also felt important. The opposite of inherited conspiracy was ordinary choice. A color. A crib. Whether a door remained open. We spent twenty minutes discussing pale green before Bianca arrived at the front door and reminded us how little ordinary time we had left.
I also called Denise before going to sleep and asked whether Noah could remain in therapy even if the court eventually placed him with a relative. “Absolutely,” she said. “Stability is more than an address.” That phrase stayed with me. For years I had thought stability meant keeping a job, paying rent, enduring whatever humiliation prevented disaster. Now I was beginning to understand that safety without dignity was only a quieter form of captivity. I wanted something different for Noah. I wanted something different for Ellie. And, slowly, I began to admit I wanted something different for myself too. When Luca passed the kitchen doorway, I told him, “No locked rooms in our house.” He stopped. “Agreed.” “Not even metaphorical ones.” He looked at me for a long moment. “That part may take practice.” “Then practice.” He nodded. “Together.”
