Chapter 2 - THE WOMAN WHO WAS NEVER SUPPOSED TO RETURN
“Mommy says your name is Alex.”
Alexander Moretti looked down at the sleeping boy in his arms.
For six years, nobody had called him Alex.
Not his employees. Not his associates. Not even the few relatives who still dared speak to him without permission.
Only one woman had used that name.
And according to the death certificate locked inside his private safe, Isabella Moretti had been dead for six years.
The elevator doors opened.
“Boss?”
Marcus Hale, Alexander’s head of security, stood beside him.
Alexander barely heard him.
He was staring at the crumpled drawing.
The yellow crown above the man's head wasn't particularly unusual. Children drew crowns all the time.
But there were three tiny blue stars beneath it.
Three stars arranged in a crooked triangle.
Isabella used to draw them in the corners of every letter she wrote.
She called them their little constellation.
A private joke from the night Alexander had proposed beneath a cloudy December sky.
Nobody else knew about it.
Or so he had believed.
“Get the doctor upstairs,” Alexander ordered.
Marcus nodded.
“And Marcus?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Find the woman at the east entrance. Bring her here safely. Nobody touches her.”
Alexander entered the penthouse carrying Noah.
The apartment occupied the entire forty-second floor of the Black Diamond Casino. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked Manhattan, and furniture worth more than most houses filled rooms Alexander rarely used.
He carried Noah into a guest bedroom.
For the first time in years, he noticed how cold the place felt.
Too much marble.
Too much glass.
Not enough life.
He laid Noah carefully on the enormous bed.
The little boy immediately reached for his jacket.
“Mommy?”
Alexander crouched beside him.
“We're finding her.”
Noah's eyes fluttered open.
They were gray.
Not blue.
Not brown.
Gray, with a faint silver ring around the pupils.
Alexander felt something twist inside his chest.
His grandfather had those eyes.
So had Alexander's father.
And so did Alexander.
Before he could speak, the boy whispered, “Don't let Mr. Victor find her.”
Alexander went completely still.
Victor Moretti was his uncle.
The man who had helped Alexander build his empire after Isabella's death.
The man Alexander trusted with nearly everything.
“Why are you afraid of Victor?”
But Noah had already closed his eyes.
Twenty minutes later, Dr. Samuel Bennett finished examining the child.
“Exhaustion, dehydration, and a mild fever,” he explained. “He needs fluids, food, and rest. I don't see evidence of a serious injury, but I'll keep monitoring him.”
Alexander glanced toward the bed.
“How old?”
“Five, perhaps six.”
Five.
The number struck Alexander harder than a fist.
Isabella had died six years ago.
He remembered the Christmas before her death.
She had seemed distracted. Nervous. Almost frightened.
And then, three weeks later, the accident had happened.
A highway collision.
A fire.
A funeral he could barely remember attending.
“Boss?”
Marcus stood in the doorway.
“We found the mother.”
Alexander straightened.
“Where?”
“In the security office.”
“Why isn't she upstairs?”
Marcus hesitated.
“Because she's refusing to come.”
Alexander frowned.
“She says she won't enter your private elevator.”
“Why?”
Marcus lowered his voice.
“Because she says the last woman who entered it never came back.”
Alexander felt the room tilt.
He left Noah with the doctor and walked directly to the security office.
Inside, a woman stood beside the desk, clutching a worn brown purse.
She was approximately thirty-two, with dark auburn hair pulled into a loose ponytail. Her inexpensive gray coat was wet from the snow.
Her hands were trembling.
But her chin was raised.
She looked like someone who had spent years learning how to be frightened without showing it.
“Where is my son?”
Her voice cracked.
Alexander stopped.
Something about her face was familiar.
Not immediately.
But painfully.
“Your boy is safe,” he answered. “He's upstairs with a doctor.”
“You had no right to take him.”
“He collapsed outside my building.”
“Then you should have called an ambulance.”
“I called a physician.”
“That doesn't make you his father.”
The words struck a nerve neither of them was prepared for.
Alexander studied her.
“What's your name?”
“Emily Carter.”
He remembered now.
Not her name.
Her face.
She had been standing near the rear entrance of St. Catherine's Church on the day Isabella was buried.
Wearing a navy coat.
Crying harder than anyone except Alexander.
“You knew my wife.”
Emily's face lost its color.
Alexander took one step closer.
“Isabella.”
Emily gripped her purse.
“Please let me see Noah.”
“Did you know Isabella Moretti?”
A terrible silence settled between them.
Finally, Emily whispered, “She was my sister.”
Alexander stared at her.
“Isabella didn't have a sister.”
“She had a half sister.”
“She would have told me.”
Emily gave a small, bitter laugh.
“Would she?”
Alexander felt anger rising.
“My wife told me everything.”
“No,” Emily said quietly. “She told you what she could.”
For a moment, neither moved.
Then Emily reached into her purse.
Alexander's security men immediately shifted.
“Hands where I can see them,” one warned.
Emily froze.
Alexander raised a hand.
“Let her.”
She withdrew a small velvet pouch.
Inside was a gold bracelet.
Thin.
Delicate.
With a tiny crescent moon hanging from the clasp.
Alexander recognized it instantly.
He had bought it for Isabella during their honeymoon in Florence.
She never removed it.
Not once.
The police had told him it was destroyed in the accident.
“Where did you get that?”
Emily's fingers closed around the bracelet.
“She gave it to me.”
“When?”
Emily looked toward the security cameras.
“Not here.”
Alexander ordered Marcus to shut off the recording equipment and dismiss the guards.
Emily waited until they were alone.
Then she spoke.
“Six years ago, Isabella came to my apartment on Christmas Eve. She was crying. She said someone inside your family had discovered something about her pregnancy.”
Alexander's breath caught.
“Pregnancy?”
Emily nodded.
“She was going to tell you Christmas morning.”
Alexander remembered that morning.
Isabella had kissed him and said she had a present too important to put beneath the tree.
He had teased her about being dramatic.
By New Year's, she was gone.
Alexander leaned against the desk.
“Are you telling me Noah is Isabella's son?”
Emily's expression changed.
Grief.
Fear.
And something that looked almost like guilt.
“Noah is my son,” she said.
“Then why does he have her bracelet?”
“Because Isabella wanted him to have something that belonged to her.”
“Why?”
Emily looked away.
Alexander's voice hardened.
“Emily.”
She swallowed.
“Because she knew what would happen if Victor found out.”
Alexander stepped closer.
“Found out what?”
Emily's eyes filled.
“That Isabella was carrying your baby.”
Silence.
Alexander heard the faint hum of the security monitors.
He looked at the bracelet.
Then at Emily.
“And where is that baby?”
Emily began crying.
Before she could answer, Marcus entered, carrying Noah's red backpack.
“Boss, you need to see this.”
He placed the bag on the desk.
Its zipper was broken.
Inside were children's clothes, a plastic dinosaur, and a small blue envelope.
Alexander opened it.
There was a photograph.
Isabella stood outside a hospital, visibly pregnant, smiling beside Emily.
On the back, in Isabella's unmistakable handwriting, were five words.
IF I DISAPPEAR, PROTECT MY SON.
Alexander looked up.
Emily was staring at the photograph as though seeing a ghost.
“That's impossible,” she whispered.
“Why?”
May you like
Her lips trembled.
“Because Isabella was never supposed to leave that hospital alive.”
