Chapter 5 - THE RED BOOK IN MY GRANDFATHER'S BOX
“The wrong child was buried?”
Luca repeated the words without raising his voice.
Somehow, that made them more frightening.
Harrison nodded.
“That was Samuel's exact message.”
I stood in the doorway with Oliver sleeping against my chest.
My son's warm cheek rested on my shoulder.
He had no idea that a sentence spoken by his great-grandfather was tearing apart two powerful families.
Luca turned toward me.
“Anna, did Samuel ever mention a burial?”
I shook my head.
“No.”
“Any cemetery? A grave he visited?”
I thought about Grandpa's habits.
Every November, he bought white flowers.
He always said they were for someone who had never had a proper chance at life.
I had assumed he meant my grandmother.
But she was buried outside Pittsburgh.
And Grandpa rarely visited her grave on that particular day.
“White flowers,” I whispered.
“What?”
“He bought white flowers every November eighteenth.”
Harrison closed his eyes.
Luca noticed.
“You know why.”
The attorney nodded.
“There was a child buried at St. Agnes Cemetery.”
“Which child?”
Harrison looked toward Vanessa.
She was crying silently now.
“Dominic's infant son.”
Luca stared at him.
“But you just said the wrong child was buried.”
“That's what Samuel claimed.”
“Then whose grave is it?”
Harrison's voice became barely audible.
“I don't know.”
Luca stepped closer.
“For twenty-six years you've known about a child buried under my family's name, and you've never asked who was inside that grave?”
Harrison looked ashamed.
“I made the mistake of believing a powerful man because questioning him would have destroyed my career.”
I felt sick.
Grandpa had been accused of theft.
My mother had lived in fear.
And this man had protected his comfortable life.
I adjusted Oliver in my arms.
“Mr. Moretti, please. I need to get him home.”
Luca nodded immediately.
“Of course.”
He ordered Marco to remain with Harrison and Vanessa, then personally accompanied us to the car.
Outside, the night air was cold.
A light rain had begun.
Oliver stirred.
“Mommy?”
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“Did I do something bad?”
My heart broke.
“No, baby.”
“Because the lady was mad.”
I kissed his hair.
“You didn't do anything wrong.”
He thought about that.
“Can we still have cake?”
Luca looked at us.
Then, unexpectedly, he smiled.
“There's plenty of cake, buddy.”
Oliver considered this seriously.
“Chocolate?”
“Three layers.”
My son gave a sleepy nod.
“Okay.”
Luca asked the driver to have a slice packed for him before we left.
It was such a small kindness.
But after everything that had happened, I nearly cried.
During the drive to my apartment, Luca remained quiet.
He didn't ask unnecessary questions.
He didn't try to take control of my life.
And when Oliver fell asleep again, he lowered his voice.
“Anna, I need you to understand something.”
I looked at him.
“My father's actions aren't yours to carry.”
I swallowed.
“Then why does it feel like everyone knew about my family except me?”
“Because people who wanted to protect themselves made decisions for people who couldn't fight back.”
I watched the city lights pass.
“My grandfather wasn't weak.”
“I know.”
“He worked until his hands cracked. He raised us after my mother died. He never complained.”
Luca nodded.
“He sounds like a better man than most I've known.”
I wanted to believe him.
But belief had become difficult.
When we reached my apartment, Luca carried Oliver upstairs after I explained that the boy shouldn't be disturbed.
My living room was tiny.
The sofa was worn.
A basket of folded laundry sat beside the television.
I suddenly felt embarrassed.
Luca looked around without comment.
Then he carefully placed Oliver on his bed.
I took a moment to tuck him beneath the blanket.
When I returned, Luca was standing near a framed photograph.
Grandpa Samuel smiling beside Oliver on his fourth birthday.
“He looks happy,” Luca said.
“He was.”
I opened the storage closet.
The railway box sat on the highest shelf.
Inside were old tickets, a blue knitted scarf, a brass lantern, and the little red ledger.
I carried it to the kitchen table.
Luca sat across from me.
The cover had faded almost brown.
Grandpa's neat handwriting filled the pages.
Train arrivals.
Repair expenses.
Little notes about weather and birthdays.
I turned to the last page.
And stopped.
It was blank.
I stared.
“That can't be right.”
Luca leaned forward.
“What?”
“There was writing here.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
A few months before Grandpa died, I'd seen him reading it.
He'd closed the book when I entered.
Now the page was empty.
I turned it toward the light.
There were faint impressions in the paper.
Words had been written on the sheet above and removed.
Luca studied the binding.
“Someone tore out a page.”
I touched the jagged edge near the spine.
He was right.
And I knew exactly when it might have happened.
“Vanessa came here once.”
Luca looked up.
“When?”
“About six months ago. She said she wanted to check whether the apartment was suitable for Oliver.”
His expression darkened.
“Did she come alone?”
“No. She brought a man who said he was inspecting the heating.”
“Did you leave them unattended?”
“I had to collect Oliver from school.”
Luca shook his head.
“Anna—”
“I didn't know.”
He stopped himself.
“You're right. You had no reason to suspect her.”
I looked back at the ledger.
“There's something else.”
On the inside cover, Grandpa had written a sentence.
When the first bell sounds, look beneath the last.
Luca frowned.
“Railway language?”
“Maybe.”
I turned the pages.
There were several sketches of train stations.
Grandpa loved drawing them.
One showed the old station where he worked outside Pittsburgh.
Another showed Chicago's Union Station.
But the last drawing was different.
It was a bell tower.
Below it, Grandpa had carefully written:
St. Agnes.
Luca leaned closer.
“The children's residence.”
I nodded.
Near the bottom of the sketch was a tiny symbol.
Three intersecting lines.
The same symbol engraved near the hinge of Oliver's watch.
I reached for the watch.
Luca examined both markings.
“They match.”
Then he pressed gently against the watch's lower hinge.
A small brass pin shifted.
I gasped.
It wasn't another hidden compartment.
It was a key.
No longer than my thumbnail.
Luca carefully removed it.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
The key was engraved with the same three-line symbol.
Underneath were four numbers.
6417\.
The number on the hospital bracelet.
Luca looked at me.
“Your grandfather hid it in the hinge.”
I covered my mouth.
Vanessa had searched for that key for months.
It had been sitting inside the watch the entire time.
Luca opened the ledger again.
A loose piece of blue paper slipped from the back cover.
It was a child's drawing.
A woman in a red coat held hands with two children.
One child was a little girl.
The other was a baby wrapped in blue.
Above them, in uneven handwriting, someone had written:
Come home, Danny.
I stared at the drawing.
“Danny?”
Luca looked at me.
“Daniel Bellini?”
I shook my head.
“No.”
My mother used to call someone Danny.
I remembered hearing it when I was little.
She said the name in her sleep.
Sometimes she cried afterward.
On the back of the drawing, Grandpa had written:
Daniel came back. Carlo must never know.
The kitchen seemed to grow colder.
Luca read the words twice.
Then he looked up.
“Anna, I think your grandfather lied about your father disappearing.”
I stared at him.
“Why?”
“Because he came back.”
I shook my head.
“Then why didn't he find me?”
Luca looked toward Oliver's bedroom.
“I don't know.”
At that moment, I noticed something else.
Beneath the drawing was an old newspaper clipping.
The headline concerned a fatal warehouse fire in Chicago.
The date was seventeen years earlier.
Among the people listed as missing was a name I recognized.
Daniel Bellini.
And beside it, another.
Samuel Bennett.
I stared at the page.
“My grandfather wasn't in Chicago that year.”
Luca took the clipping.
His eyes moved down the article.
Then stopped.
“What is it?” I whispered.
He looked at me.
“The warehouse belonged to my father.”
He turned the page.
A grainy photograph showed firefighters carrying a small child away from the burning building.
I leaned closer.
The child's face was partially hidden.
But around his wrist was a blue hospital bracelet.
And standing beside the ambulance was a man with dark hair and a familiar profile.
Luca stared at him.
May you like
His face drained of color.
“Anna,” he whispered, “that's Daniel Bellini. And I saw him alive three months ago.”
