Chapter 3 - THE LETTER ELENA NEVER SENT
“Why wouldn't he be allowed to come back?”
Luca's question echoed through the dining room.
Ethan stood frozen beside Sophie.
Vanessa pressed one hand against her throat.
“Luca, he's a child. He misunderstands things.”
“Then explain them.”
“I was trying to protect him.”
“From whom?”
She looked toward Antonio.
“From the truth.”
I gently guided both children toward the doorway.
But Sophie refused to move.
“Daddy, don't let her send Ethan away.”
Luca knelt in front of his daughter.
“I won't let anyone make decisions about him tonight.”
“Promise?”
“I promise I'll keep you both safe while we figure this out.”
Ethan stared at him.
Nobody had made him that promise before.
I could see it in his face.
We left the dining room together.
Behind us, Vanessa began crying.
This time, I wasn't certain whether those tears were real.
In the library, Sophie sat beside Ethan on the leather sofa.
She placed both napkins on the coffee table.
“Mommy used to tell me stories,” she said.
Ethan looked at her.
“What kind?”
“About two little birds.”
“Were they twins?”
Sophie nodded.
“One lived in a big tree. The other lived somewhere far away.”
“What happened?”
“They found each other.”
Ethan touched his ribbon.
“That's a good story.”
Sophie smiled.
“She said it wasn't finished yet.”
I turned toward the bookshelves.
There was something about Elena's stories that bothered me.
Four years earlier, she had been dying from an illness everyone described as sudden.
Yet she had spent years teaching Sophie about a missing brother.
Why hadn't she told Luca?
Why hadn't she gone to the police?
And why had Antonio waited until tonight?
A few minutes later, Luca entered the library.
His face was pale.
“Emily, I need your help.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Would you stay with the children?”
“Of course.”
He looked toward Ethan.
“I'm going upstairs to find something that belonged to your mother.”
Ethan looked down.
“Is she really my mom?”
Luca hesitated.
Then he answered carefully.
“The photograph tells me she held you when you were born. That's something important. We're going to find out everything else.”
Ethan nodded.
Luca left.
I followed him into the hallway.
“Mr. Moretti?”
He stopped.
“Thank you for speaking gently to him.”
He looked exhausted.
“I don't know how to speak to a son I didn't know existed.”
“You don't have to know everything tonight.”
He looked toward the library.
“I've missed eight years.”
“Then don't miss what happens next.”
For a moment, he said nothing.
Then he nodded.
We walked upstairs with Antonio.
Elena's old dressing room remained at the end of the east hallway.
Vanessa had converted it into a storage room.
Boxes of seasonal decorations covered the floor.
The cedar wardrobe stood against the wall.
Antonio approached it slowly.
“Mrs. Moretti loved this room.”
Luca opened the wardrobe.
Inside were several old coats, carefully wrapped in linen.
One was a pale-blue winter coat.
Antonio touched the collar.
“She wore that the day she found out she was expecting.”
Luca closed his eyes.
“I remember.”
His voice was rough.
“She came downstairs laughing because the doctor had confirmed the pregnancy.”
Antonio looked away.
“She was happy.”
Luca opened his eyes.
“Then why was she frightened at the hospital?”
Antonio didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he handed Luca the silver key.
There was a small locked drawer beneath the wardrobe.
The key turned with difficulty.
Inside lay a cedar box.
Luca lifted it onto the dressing table.
The wood smelled faintly of lavender.
He opened the lid.
A pair of tiny baby shoes rested on top.
Beneath them were two silver crosses, although one space was empty.
And underneath everything lay a folded letter.
Luca recognized the handwriting.
“Elena.”
He unfolded it.
The first line read:
Luca, if you're reading this, someone has finally told you about our son.
His hands began trembling.
He sat down.
Antonio remained beside him.
I stood near the door.
Luca continued reading.
Elena had written the letter seven months before her death.
She described waking after an emergency delivery and finding both babies beside her.
For several hours, she had believed everything was fine.
Then a nurse arrived.
The boy needed additional observation, she was told.
When Elena asked to see him again, the staff informed her he had suffered fatal complications.
But the timing never made sense.
Neither did the hospital paperwork.
Elena had kept the photograph because the official records claimed the boy had died before it was taken.
Then came a sentence that made Luca stop.
Your enemies were not the people I feared most that night.
Luca looked at Antonio.
“What does that mean?”
The chef swallowed.
“Read the next page.”
Luca continued.
My father warned me that Dr. Bellini had been arranging private adoptions for wealthy families. He believed some mothers were being told their babies had died.
I felt sick.
Vanessa's father.
The doctor who delivered Sophie.
The man who had attended Christmas dinners at this house for years.
Luca lowered the letter.
“Why didn't Elena tell me?”
Antonio's eyes filled with tears.
“She tried.”
“What?”
“She told your father.”
Luca stared.
“My father?”
Antonio nodded.
“Salvatore said he would investigate quietly.”
Luca's jaw tightened.
“My father died six years ago.”
“Yes.”
“That means he knew about the child before he died.”
Antonio looked at the floor.
“I believe so.”
Luca stood abruptly.
“Why would he keep that from me?”
Antonio's voice shook.
“Because the doctor had something he could use against your family.”
“What?”
“I don't know.”
Luca looked back at the letter.
Elena had written that she was afraid involving Luca too soon would place both children in danger.
She had continued searching through trusted people.
She had found a woman named Ruth Whitaker, who worked at the hospital.
Ruth claimed the missing boy was alive.
Elena had arranged to meet her.
But the meeting never happened.
On the final page, Elena wrote:
If I become ill before I can bring him home, don't accept what they tell you about me without asking questions.
Luca went completely still.
He read that sentence again.
Then a third time.
I looked toward Antonio.
“Was Mrs. Moretti sick before that?”
He shook his head.
“Not until a few months later.”
Luca folded the letter.
“Vanessa told me Elena had an autoimmune condition.”
Antonio looked troubled.
“The doctors said several things. I never understood why the diagnosis kept changing.”
Luca opened the box again.
At the bottom was a narrow envelope.
Inside were two train tickets.
Both dated four days before Elena was hospitalized for the final time.
One ticket was for Chicago.
The other for Milwaukee.
A handwritten note on the back read:
Ruth has agreed. Bring both children together.
Luca examined the tickets.
“She was going to meet our son.”
Antonio nodded.
“And someone stopped her.”
Footsteps sounded outside.
Vanessa appeared in the doorway.
Her mascara had run down her cheeks.
She saw the open box.
Then the letter.
“Luca,” she whispered, “please put that away.”
He held up the tickets.
“Did Elena know where Ethan was?”
Vanessa stared at them.
“That's not what you think.”
“Then tell me.”
She took a shaky breath.
“Your wife was going to take Sophie away.”
Luca's expression changed.
“What?”
“Those tickets weren't for a reunion. She planned to disappear with both children.”
“Why would she run from me?”
Vanessa looked toward Antonio.
“Because she learned what your father had done.”
The elderly chef shook his head.
“No.”
Vanessa began crying harder.
“Ask him about the payment, Luca.”
“What payment?”
She pointed toward the cedar box.
“Look under the lining.”
Luca lifted the soft fabric.
A folded bank receipt lay underneath.
He opened it.
The amount was unmistakable.
$250,000.
The recipient was a private medical foundation controlled by Dr. Bellini.
The authorization bore the Moretti family seal.
And beneath it was a signature.
Luca recognized it immediately.
His father's.
May you like
Vanessa whispered:
“YOUR FATHER DIDN'T LOSE YOUR SON, LUCA. HE PAID MY FATHER TO TAKE HIM.”
