Chapter 3 - THE WOMAN WHO ATTENDED MY MOTHER'S FUNERAL
“Your aunt killed your father?”
The words came out before I could stop them.
Dante folded the letter.
“I don't know.”
“But her name is written underneath.”
“That doesn't prove she murdered anyone.”
I stared at him.
“You just told me your father was murdered the night I was born. My mother apparently knew something about it. And your aunt accused her of kidnapping you.”
Dante said nothing.
“That's a lot of coincidences, Mr. Moretti.”
“Dante.”
“What?”
“My name is Dante.”
I crossed my arms.
“I don't think we're on a first-name basis.”
Something flickered in his gray eyes.
Respect, perhaps.
Or amusement.
“Fair enough.”
Orion leaned against my leg again.
I looked down at him.
“At least one Moretti knows how to make a good impression.”
Dante almost smiled.
Almost.
Then his expression grew serious.
“Olivia, I need you to understand something. My father's death divided this family. People disappeared. Businesses changed hands. My mother stopped trusting anyone.”
“And my mother?”
“According to everything I was told, she betrayed us.”
I looked at the old photograph.
Two young women holding hands.
One rich.
One poor.
Both smiling.
“Then someone lied.”
Dante's gaze settled on the picture.
“Yes.”
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then I remembered something.
“Margaret came to my mother's funeral.”
Dante stiffened.
“What?”
“She introduced herself as an old friend. She wore a dark green coat and carried a silver rosary.”
His expression became unreadable.
“Did she speak to you?”
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
I tried to remember.
It had been nine years.
I was seventeen, standing beside my mother's grave in freezing rain.
Margaret had taken my hands.
She'd smelled of expensive perfume.
And she'd said something strange.
Your mother did everything she could to keep you safe. Never let anyone tell you otherwise.
I repeated the words.
Dante stepped away from the table.
“That doesn't sound like a woman who hated your mother.”
“No.”
“Did she give you anything?”
I hesitated.
“Yes.”
I reached into my apron pocket.
There was a brass key attached to my apartment keys.
Old.
Heavy.
Marked with a tiny crescent moon.
Dante stared.
“Where did you get that?”
“Margaret gave it to me after the funeral. She said my mother wanted me to have it.”
“Have you ever used it?”
“No. I don't know what it opens.”
Dante extended his hand.
“May I?”
I removed it from the ring.
He turned the key beneath the light.
Then his expression darkened.
“This belongs to my mother's writing desk.”
I blinked.
“Her desk?”
“At the family estate. She kept it in her private sitting room.”
“Then why would Margaret give it to me?”
Dante looked toward the photographs.
“I think we're going to find out.”
I shook my head.
“I'm not going to your mansion.”
“You don't have to.”
“Good.”
“I'll bring the desk here.”
I stared.
“You'll bring an entire desk into a restaurant?”
“If that's what makes you comfortable.”
Despite everything, I laughed.
It surprised both of us.
Then I became serious again.
“No. I'll go. But only because I want answers about my mother.”
Dante nodded.
“And I'll make sure you get them.”
I pointed at him.
“No threats. No intimidation. No armed men hovering over me.”
He glanced at Marco.
“Give her space.”
Marco looked offended.
“I wasn't hovering.”
Orion gave a low rumble.
Marco immediately stepped backward.
I smiled.
“Apparently, he disagrees.”
Dante's mansion stood behind iron gates in a quiet neighborhood north of Manhattan.
It was enormous.
White stone.
Tall windows.
A circular driveway surrounding a fountain.
But what unsettled me wasn't the wealth.
It was the silence.
The house felt like a place where people were afraid to speak.
A gray-haired housekeeper met us at the entrance.
Her name was Mrs. Bennett.
The moment she saw me, her serving tray slipped from her hands.
China shattered across the marble floor.
“Oh, dear God,” she whispered.
Dante hurried forward.
“Mrs. Bennett?”
She wasn't looking at him.
She was staring at me.
“Evelyn?”
My throat tightened.
“No. I'm Olivia. Her daughter.”
The elderly woman covered her mouth.
Then tears filled her eyes.
“You have her eyes.”
Dante looked between us.
“You knew Evelyn?”
Mrs. Bennett began trembling.
“She was my friend.”
I took a step toward her.
“Then please tell me what happened.”
Mrs. Bennett glanced toward the staircase.
Fear replaced the warmth in her face.
“Not here.”
Dante's jaw tightened.
“Who's listening?”
She shook her head.
“Someone always is in this house.”
We followed her into a small sitting room overlooking the garden.
An old mahogany writing desk stood beneath the window.
On its surface sat a photograph of Elena Moretti.
I recognized the necklace immediately.
Dante's mother.
She had soft brown eyes and an elegant smile.
Beside the picture stood a smaller frame.
Inside was a little boy holding a black puppy.
Dante and the original Orion.
I felt unexpectedly sad.
“All this time,” I whispered, “my mother knew your family.”
Mrs. Bennett nodded.
“Your mother saved that boy's life.”
Dante went still.
“What?”
The housekeeper lowered herself into a chair.
“You were twelve. There was an accident near the old carriage entrance. A man tried to take you away.”
Dante frowned.
“I remember falling.”
“You didn't fall.”
Mrs. Bennett looked at me.
“Evelyn pulled him away from the car before the driver could force him inside.”
My eyes filled with tears.
“Why didn't anyone tell him?”
“Because afterward, everything changed.”
Dante approached the desk.
“Who was driving?”
Mrs. Bennett hesitated.
“Your uncle Vincent.”
Silence.
Dante looked sharply at her.
“Vincent died with my father.”
“Yes.”
“Everyone said it was a robbery.”
Mrs. Bennett lowered her voice.
“Your father believed Vincent had betrayed him. Evelyn overheard them arguing that afternoon.”
I remembered the letter.
The only child who can prove what happened.
“Me?” I whispered. “How could I prove anything? I was a newborn.”
Mrs. Bennett studied me.
“Because your mother took something from that house before she escaped.”
“What?”
The housekeeper looked toward the desk.
“Open the drawer.”
I inserted the brass key.
It turned easily.
Inside were old stationery, a silver fountain pen, and a velvet-lined compartment.
I lifted the compartment.
Beneath it lay a tiny blue baby bracelet.
My name was embroidered across the fabric.
OLIVIA.
I stared.
“My mother kept this?”
Mrs. Bennett shook her head.
“Elena kept it.”
Dante stepped closer.
“Why?”
The elderly woman wiped her eyes.
“Because she believed that child belonged to this family.”
I stopped breathing.
Dante stared at me.
“Mrs. Bennett,” he said slowly, “explain what you mean.”
She looked exhausted.
“Your mother and Evelyn made a promise. Whatever happened, they would protect the baby.”
“What baby?” Dante demanded.
Mrs. Bennett pointed at the bracelet.
“Her.”
My heart began pounding.
“No,” I whispered. “My mother was Evelyn Marshall.”
“She raised you,” Mrs. Bennett answered gently.
Dante's face went completely still.
“Are you saying Olivia isn't Evelyn's biological daughter?”
“I don't know who gave birth to her,” Mrs. Bennett whispered. “Evelyn never told me.”
The room seemed to turn sideways.
I gripped the desk.
My entire life suddenly felt uncertain.
But then I noticed something beneath the bracelet.
A photograph.
Small.
Faded.
It showed Evelyn standing beside Elena Moretti outside a hospital.
Elena was holding a newborn baby.
My name was written on the back.
Olivia. April 14, 2000.
Underneath was another sentence.
Dante must never know until Margaret tells him the truth.
I looked up.
“Why would your mother hide me from you?”
Dante took the photograph.
His expression changed.
He stared at Elena's face for a long time.
Then he whispered something I barely heard.
“She promised me the baby had died.”
My blood turned cold.
“What baby?”
He slowly looked at me.
“My mother's baby.”
The room went silent.
Dante's voice trembled.
May you like
“The little sister I held for eleven minutes before they took her away.”
And in the hallway outside, someone dropped a silver rosary.
