Chapter 3 - THE PHOTOGRAPH MY MOTHER NEVER SHOWED ME
“What did your father do to my mother?”
The question came out of my mouth before I could stop it.
Vanessa Bellini looked at me as though she had been expecting those words for years.
Then she turned away.
“It's complicated.”
I looked at the photograph lying on Luca's desk.
My mother was seventeen.
She was smiling.
And Anthony Moretti had one protective hand resting on her shoulder.
“Complicated doesn't tell me anything.”
Luca moved beside me.
“Vanessa, answer her.”
She folded her arms.
“My father had business dealings with Anthony. There was a disagreement involving property.”
Charles gave her a long look.
“A disagreement?”
His voice sounded almost disgusted.
“That's an interesting description.”
Vanessa's eyes flashed.
“You don't know everything, Charles.”
“Then perhaps you should explain.”
Isabella was sitting on the leather sofa, her red coat folded carefully across her lap.
She looked from one adult to another.
“Daddy, is Miss Emily in trouble?”
Luca immediately crossed the room.
“No, princess.”
“Because of her mom?”
“No.”
He brushed a strand of hair away from her face.
“None of this is her fault.”
I looked away.
I wanted to believe that.
But the longer I studied the photograph, the more frightened I became.
My mother had worked at the post office for twenty-three years.
She clipped grocery coupons.
She kept birthday cards in a shoebox.
And she had spent the previous eighteen months worrying about how to pay for her medical treatments.
Why had she never mentioned a house on Lake Shore Drive?
Charles opened another notebook.
“Before we go further, I need to clarify something. Anthony's records suggest a trust arrangement, but we still need the original documents.”
Luca nodded.
“Then we'll find them.”
Charles turned toward Vanessa.
“Your father's company filed a notice claiming it had acquired the beneficial interest. That's why Margaret asked me to review the transfer.”
Vanessa shook her head.
“My father said everything was legal.”
“When?”
“Six months ago.”
Luca went still.
“Six months?”
Vanessa looked down.
“We were already engaged.”
“You were negotiating for my mother's house while planning our wedding?”
“I was trying to resolve a problem my father created.”
For a moment, her voice sounded genuinely exhausted.
“My father's company is in serious financial trouble. He told me the property was tied to an old obligation, and that selling it would settle everything.”
“And you believed him?” Luca asked.
“I wanted to.”
That answer startled me.
It was the first honest-sounding thing Vanessa had said all evening.
Charles closed the notebook.
“Your father, Victor Bellini, may have been involved in a property scheme thirty-two years ago. Anthony's notes mention forged ownership records and payments routed through Bellini-controlled companies.”
Luca's expression darkened.
“Why didn't my father expose him?”
Charles shook his head.
“I don't know.”
I stared at the photograph.
Then remembered something.
“My mother has a picture like this.”
Everyone looked at me.
“Not the same photograph. But the same building.”
Luca stepped closer.
“Where?”
“In an old biscuit tin. She keeps it in her bedroom closet.”
I swallowed.
“She told me it was the place where she learned never to trust promises.”
Charles looked thoughtful.
“Did she ever mention Anthony?”
“Never.”
“Margaret?”
I shook my head.
“No.”
Then I remembered another detail.
“Sometimes she got flowers.”
Vanessa looked up.
“What kind?”
“White roses. Every year on her birthday.”
Luca frowned.
“My mother sends white roses.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“It's her favorite way of remembering people. She sends them to friends, former employees, families she's helped.”
My heart began pounding.
The cards accompanying those flowers had never included a sender's name.
Only four words.
You are not forgotten.
I had always assumed they came from an old friend.
Now I wasn't sure.
Luca reached for his phone.
“I'm calling the rehabilitation center.”
Vanessa caught his wrist.
“Please don't do this tonight.”
He looked at her hand.
She released him.
“Mom has been asking to come home for weeks,” he said. “I'm done letting other people decide what she wants.”
He spoke briefly to the center's evening supervisor.
Margaret was awake.
Her doctor had approved supervised visits.
And, contrary to what Vanessa had told him, Margaret had been medically cleared for discharge planning nearly a month earlier.
Luca listened in silence.
Then asked one question.
“Who requested that the discharge meeting be postponed?”
His expression changed.
“Thank you.”
He ended the call.
Charles watched him.
“Who was it?”
Luca stared at Vanessa.
“My mother's appointed household liaison.”
Vanessa swallowed.
“I was following medical advice.”
“No,” Luca replied. “You were controlling information.”
I looked down at my bandaged hand.
The bleeding had stopped.
But the cut throbbed.
Luca noticed.
“Emily, you need a doctor.”
“It's not deep, sir.”
“I'd rather have someone confirm that.”
Vanessa laughed bitterly.
“You're worried about her hand while our entire future is falling apart?”
Luca slowly turned.
“Our future?”
His voice was quiet.
“You threatened to destroy my daughter's most precious possession. You kept her away from her grandmother. And you lied about my mother's medical condition.”
He looked toward Isabella.
“Whatever happens to us, that doesn't get ignored.”
Vanessa's eyes filled.
“I know.”
For once, she didn't argue.
Luca asked Daniel to arrange a car and a medical appointment for me.
Then he turned to Charles.
“I want copies of everything secured tonight. Nothing leaves this room without being recorded.”
Charles nodded.
But when he opened the metal box again, something slipped from beneath its lining.
A cream-colored envelope.
It had been carefully flattened and hidden under a false cardboard bottom.
Across the front was written:
For Elizabeth Carter, if she ever learns the truth.
I reached toward it.
Charles hesitated.
“Emily, legally this is addressed to your mother.”
“I know.”
He handed it to me unopened.
“You should give it to her.”
Vanessa took one look at the handwriting.
And her face went pale.
“Don't take that home.”
I stared at her.
“Why?”
“Because your mother may not be ready.”
“For what?”
She pressed her lips together.
Luca stepped beside me.
“Vanessa.”
She looked at him with tears in her eyes.
“Anthony wrote that letter after the fire.”
Charles frowned.
“What fire?”
Vanessa shook her head.
“My father told me Elizabeth was injured. He said Anthony helped her recover.”
I looked at the envelope.
My mother had a thin white scar along her left shoulder.
She'd always said it came from a childhood kitchen accident.
Now I wondered whether that was another story she'd told to protect herself.
I turned the envelope over.
A date was written on the back.
October 14, 1994.
Underneath, in smaller handwriting, were six words.
Tell her what happened to Daniel.
Luca frowned.
“Daniel?”
His security chief, standing near the doorway, looked up at the sound of his name.
But Vanessa shook her head.
“Not him.”
Then she said something that made my knees weaken.
“Daniel Carter was your mother's older brother.”
I stared.
“My mother doesn't have a brother.”
Vanessa looked at me.
“She did.”
Charles closed his eyes.
And Luca asked the question I was suddenly too frightened to say aloud.
“What happened to him?”
May you like
Vanessa looked toward the photograph.
“That's the reason Elizabeth never came back to this house.”
Related Stories
