Chapter 4 - THE BABY WHO WAS NEVER BURIED
The silver rosary struck the marble floor with a sharp metallic sound.
Dante turned toward the doorway.
“Who is there?”
A woman's voice answered.
“Someone who should have told you the truth a long time ago.”
Margaret Moretti stepped into the sitting room.
She looked older than I remembered.
Her silver hair was pinned neatly beneath a dark green scarf.
She wore a tailored coat and carried herself with the quiet confidence of someone accustomed to giving orders.
But her face had gone pale.
She stared at me.
For nine years, I'd imagined what I would say if I ever saw her again.
Now I couldn't find a single word.
“Olivia,” she whispered.
I stepped backward.
“You knew.”
Margaret closed her eyes.
“Please—”
“You knew my mother wasn't telling me everything.”
She looked toward Dante.
“You shouldn't have brought her here.”
His voice turned icy.
“Careful, Aunt Margaret.”
“She isn't safe.”
“From whom?”
Margaret didn't answer.
Dante held up the photograph.
“Were you ever going to tell me?”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“My darling boy—”
“Don't.”
His voice cracked.
I watched the most intimidating man I'd ever met struggle to maintain his composure.
“Twenty-six years,” he continued. “For twenty-six years, you let me believe my baby sister was dead.”
Margaret sank into a chair.
“Your mother begged me.”
“Why?”
“Because she was terrified.”
“Of whom?”
Margaret looked at Orion.
The dog stood beside me, watching her carefully.
“Your father,” she whispered.
Dante's expression hardened.
“My father loved my mother.”
“Yes,” Margaret replied. “And he loved power.”
She reached into her handbag and withdrew a faded newspaper clipping.
The headline concerned the murder of Alessandro Moretti, a powerful businessman whose activities had attracted federal investigators.
I looked at the photograph beneath the headline.
He resembled Dante.
Same dark hair.
Same sharp features.
But there was something colder in his eyes.
“Your father believed someone inside the family had been cooperating with the authorities,” Margaret said.
Dante crossed his arms.
“He was right. Vincent.”
“Yes. But Vincent wasn't the only one.”
My stomach tightened.
“Who else?”
Margaret looked directly at me.
“Your mother.”
I shook my head.
“Evelyn?”
“She wasn't an informant in the way Alessandro imagined. She was trying to protect innocent people who had been trapped in his business dealings.”
Dante's expression darkened.
“She worked for the authorities?”
“She helped a federal investigator find the records of families Alessandro had threatened.”
I stared at Margaret.
My mother had spent years cleaning other people's houses.
She'd clipped coupons.
She'd cried when our heating bills arrived.
And now I was being told she'd once challenged New York's most dangerous crime family.
“Why?” I whispered.
Margaret swallowed.
“Because Alessandro had made a terrible mistake.”
“What mistake?”
“He'd allowed Vincent to use the family businesses to move money belonging to a violent trafficking organization. When Elena found out, she threatened to expose them.”
Dante looked sick.
“My mother knew?”
“She tried to stop it.”
Margaret turned toward me.
“And Evelyn helped her.”
I looked at the photograph of the two women.
For the first time, I understood something about their expressions.
They weren't simply happy.
They were brave.
Dante moved toward the window.
“Tell me about the baby.”
Margaret closed her eyes.
“Elena gave birth at a private clinic. You were twelve. She let you hold your sister before the nurses took her for observation.”
“I remember.”
“Afterward, Alessandro discovered that Evelyn had taken copies of Vincent's financial records.”
Dante turned.
“He thought she was going to betray him.”
“Yes.”
“And my sister?”
Margaret's hands trembled.
“Alessandro believed the baby could be used to force Elena and Evelyn into silence.”
I felt cold all over.
“He threatened his own daughter?”
Margaret nodded.
“He said the child would remain under his control until Elena stopped asking questions.”
Dante looked as though he'd been struck.
“No.”
“Your mother knew what that meant. She'd seen what happened to people Alessandro considered disloyal.”
Dante turned away.
For a long moment, he couldn't speak.
Then he whispered, “Why did you tell me she died?”
Margaret's expression crumpled.
“Because Elena begged me to.”
I stared at her.
“Evelyn took the baby?”
“Yes.”
“Me?”
Margaret looked directly into my eyes.
“Yes.”
A strange silence settled over the room.
I'd always known my mother loved me.
Every birthday.
Every scraped knee.
Every long winter when she worked two jobs.
That love had been the one certainty in my life.
Now I understood it might have begun with a promise rather than a birth.
“Did Elena ever try to find me?”
Margaret's eyes filled.
“Every day.”
“Then why didn't she come?”
“Because Alessandro's people watched her.”
I looked at Dante.
“Your mother was alive while I was growing up?”
He nodded slowly.
“She died when I was twenty-two.”
I calculated the years.
I would have been ten.
Ten years.
Ten birthdays.
Ten Christmas mornings.
All those years I'd imagined my father was someone my mother didn't want to discuss.
I'd never imagined another woman somewhere was missing me.
“Did she know where I lived?” I asked.
Margaret hesitated.
“Not always.”
“Did she know my name?”
“Yes.”
“Did she ever send anything?”
Mrs. Bennett began crying quietly.
Margaret opened her handbag.
Inside was a small cream-colored envelope.
She handed it to me.
My name was written on the front in elegant handwriting.
For Olivia, when she is old enough to understand.
I opened it carefully.
Inside was a small photograph.
Elena Moretti sat in a garden, holding a little girl with curly brown hair.
The child looked about three.
Me.
I recognized my own smile.
On the back, Elena had written:
My beautiful daughter. One day, I hope you'll know why I let you go.
My knees weakened.
Dante caught my elbow.
I pulled away gently.
“I need a moment.”
He immediately stepped back.
That small gesture mattered more than he knew.
I turned to Margaret.
“Why didn't you give me this at the funeral?”
“Because Evelyn asked me to wait.”
“Until when?”
Margaret looked toward the necklace around my throat.
“Until the two crescents were brought together.”
I frowned.
“What does that mean?”
She glanced at Dante's velvet pouch.
“Your mother Elena had two necklaces made. They weren't simply jewelry.”
Dante opened the pouch.
Inside was his mother's silver crescent.
Margaret held out her hand.
“Olivia, may I see yours?”
I hesitated.
Then I removed the chain.
She placed the two crescents together.
They fit perfectly.
A tiny click sounded.
The blue stone in Dante's necklace shifted, revealing a narrow compartment.
Inside lay a folded strip of paper.
Margaret closed her eyes.
“Elena,” she whispered. “You clever woman.”
Dante unfolded the paper.
It contained numbers.
Dates.
And one name.
Vincent Moretti.
Below that was a handwritten instruction.
Find the watch Alessandro gave Dante on his twelfth birthday.
Dante became completely still.
“My father gave me that watch the day before he died.”
“Where is it?” I asked.
He looked toward the fireplace.
“Locked away.”
Margaret's face changed.
“Don't retrieve it alone.”
Dante frowned.
“Why?”
She stared at the folded paper.
“Because the man who killed your father wanted that watch.”
Dante looked up sharply.
“Vincent died in the same attack.”
Margaret shook her head.
“That's what the family was told.”
May you like
Then she spoke six words that made my skin turn cold.
“Vincent wasn't the man who died.”
