Chapter 10 - THE NIGHT THEY TOOK MARISOL
The photograph showed our hallway, but the figure reflected in its polished elevator doors was not a stranger. It was a hotel employee I'd seen delivering towels that morning. I showed Damiano, who called security and asked us to remain inside while the hallway was cleared. The employee was gone by the time guards arrived. The hotel reviewed its cameras and found that he'd used false identification.
We moved again. This time Naomi arranged a smaller, less conspicuous residence with a secure entrance and no connection to the Rossi family. I wanted the move. I also resented it. Every new address felt like another piece of my life surrendered to people who had never earned the right to touch it.
Three days later, the independent child representative visited. She watched Damiano feed Marisol, asked me about my plans, and spoke privately with Mrs. Alvarez. Her questions were practical and sometimes uncomfortable. What happened if Damiano faced criminal charges? Could I provide care without his money? Did I have support outside his household? I answered truthfully. I had savings, friends, experience caring for children, and a childcare qualification I'd earned before joining the mansion staff. I also had a growing determination to rebuild a life that couldn't be dismantled by one powerful man's enemies.
After the representative left, I found myself staring at the questions she'd written on her clipboard. Could I provide for Marisol independently? Would I continue to care for her if Damiano and I were no longer together? I'd answered yes to both, and I meant it. Still, I understood why she had asked. I'd witnessed enough families who confused possession with love to know a child needed more than promises whispered during a crisis.
I called Tessa to talk about the childcare center. We argued over possible names and the cost of washable floor mats. For a glorious half hour, the worst problem in my life was whether a landlord would allow us to repaint an ugly green wall. I asked her not to tell anyone which neighborhoods we were considering. She understood without needing an explanation.
That evening, Damiano found the list of expenses I'd made and assumed I wanted him to pay them. I put my pen down. "I want a partner who can look at a spreadsheet without buying the entire business," I told him. "Is that too much to ask?"
He laughed, but he apologized, too. He sat beside me and helped compare the rent against the number of children we could responsibly enroll. He pointed out a hidden maintenance charge, and I pointed out that the kitchen renovation estimate he'd suggested belonged in a palace, not a storefront. By the end of the conversation, the numbers were mine, the decisions were mine, and his advice was helpful precisely because he hadn't tried to own the result.
When I tucked Marisol into her portable crib, I whispered that her mother would have enjoyed the argument. In the morning we'd take her to a routine checkup. I laid out her tiny socks, prepared the diaper bag, and let myself believe an ordinary day was finally possible.
That evening, Tessa called. She'd found a suitable storefront for the childcare center I'd dreamed of opening. It was too early to commit, but seeing the photographs made me feel like a person again. I showed them to Damiano. He asked whether he could help review the lease. I said yes, provided he remembered that advice wasn't ownership.
"You've become very demanding," he said.
"I've always been demanding. I was just quiet about it."
He laughed. I kissed him. In the next room Marisol made a tiny indignant sound, as though reminding us who was in charge.
The next morning I took Marisol to a pediatric appointment with Mrs. Alvarez and our assigned security driver. The clinic had a private entrance. We had confirmed the appointment through a secure channel. I thought we'd finally learned enough to stay one step ahead.
I was wrong.
A fire alarm sounded as we were leaving the examination room. Staff directed patients toward the rear exit. Our driver was outside, but a delivery van had blocked the narrow lane. A woman in medical scrubs approached, saying the clinic had arranged an alternate evacuation route. She wore a badge, knew my name, and pointed toward a door marked STAFF ONLY.
Mrs. Alvarez caught my arm. "Wait."
The woman moved quickly. Another person appeared behind us. Someone shoved Mrs. Alvarez against the wall. I turned to protect Marisol, but a hand grabbed my wrist. I screamed. The baby began crying. I remember the cold air of the loading area and the sickening realization that the van doors were already open.
I fought. I struck someone with the diaper bag and tried to turn back toward the clinic. They pulled Marisol from my arms. Her blanket caught on my bracelet and tore. Then the van doors slammed.
The entire attack lasted less than a minute.
By the time our driver reached me, the van had disappeared. Mrs. Alvarez was conscious but bleeding from a cut above her eyebrow. Police arrived. I gave them every detail I could remember: the false badge, the woman's voice, the torn blanket, the first three characters of the license plate. Then I called Damiano.
I had never heard a man become silent the way he did when I told him his daughter was gone. I expected him to shout. Instead, he asked whether I was injured, told me to stay with the officers, and said he was coming.
At the hospital, doctors examined Mrs. Alvarez and confirmed she would recover. I sat beside her bed holding the strip of blanket that had remained caught on my bracelet. I couldn't stop seeing Marisol's face as they carried her away.
Damiano arrived with Naomi. He knelt in front of me. "Look at me. You didn't cause this. Tell me what you remember."
I told him everything again. He listened, then handed the information to investigators. Luca had already obtained traffic-camera footage. The van belonged to a shell company linked to Adrian Cross.
An hour later, a video arrived on Damiano's phone. Marisol lay in a portable crib, awake and unharmed. A distorted voice demanded that Damiano withdraw his cooperation with investigators and sign over his company shares. The deadline was midnight.
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I watched the video twice. Behind the crib hung a faded painting of a white sailboat. I knew that painting. I'd seen it in a photograph inside Isabella's music box, a picture of a lakeside house where she had once hidden.
"I know where they are," I whispered.
