Chapter 6 - THE MAN WHO RETURNED FROM THE FIRE
“You saw my father?”
The words escaped before I could stop them.
Luca remained motionless, staring at the newspaper photograph.
“I didn't know who he was.”
“Where?”
“At a memorial service for an old business associate.”
I gripped the edge of the kitchen table.
“Three months ago?”
“Yes.”
“You're certain?”
Luca looked at me.
“The man used another name. But I remember his face.”
I felt anger rising.
“You stood in the same room as my father, and now you're telling me like it's some interesting coincidence?”
Luca accepted the accusation.
“I understand why you're angry.”
“No, you don't.”
I stood.
“You grew up in this enormous house surrounded by people who knew your name. I grew up wondering why my father didn't want me.”
My voice broke.
“My mother died without ever telling me the truth. Grandpa died trying to keep me safe. And now you're telling me my father might have been alive all this time.”
Luca didn't interrupt.
That made it easier to say the rest.
“Did he ever ask about me?”
“I don't know.”
“Did he know I existed?”
“Anna—”
“Please answer.”
Luca's expression softened.
“I believe he did.”
I sat down again.
Somehow, that hurt more.
For several moments, the only sound was the refrigerator humming.
Then Luca placed the photograph between us.
“The man I met called himself David Cole.”
“David Cole?”
“He said he worked with a charitable foundation that supported children with serious medical conditions.”
I looked toward Oliver's bedroom.
My stomach tightened.
“What foundation?”
“The Bellini Children's Trust.”
I stared.
“Vanessa's family?”
“Carlo established it years ago.”
My mind raced.
Oliver had received help from a charitable program shortly after his diagnosis.
It had paid for several tests when I couldn't afford them.
I had never met the donors.
I went to the filing cabinet and retrieved the envelope containing Oliver's medical correspondence.
My hands shook as I searched.
There.
A letter.
The Bellini Children's Trust is pleased to approve assistance for pediatric cardiac evaluation.
I placed it in front of Luca.
He read it carefully.
Then looked up.
“Anna, when did you receive this?”
“Last year. Before I started working for you.”
He frowned.
“That means someone knew where you were before Vanessa hired you.”
I swallowed.
“Someone knew about Oliver.”
Luca nodded.
“And someone wanted to help him.”
I stared at the letter.
For years, I had believed the grant was an ordinary act of charity.
Now I wondered whether it had been something else.
“Do you think my father sent it?”
“Possibly.”
“Then why didn't he come to us?”
Luca looked down.
“I don't know.”
I hated those three words.
But I was beginning to appreciate that he didn't invent answers merely to comfort me.
The next morning, Oliver woke feeling better.
His cheeks had regained some color.
He asked whether he could keep the slice of wedding cake for breakfast.
I told him he could have a little after his oatmeal.
Luca had spent the night in the guest room at the end of the hallway in our building, which he had rented from our landlord for the night.
When he returned, he brought fresh rolls and a bag of groceries.
I stared at them.
“You don't have to do this.”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
He glanced toward Oliver.
“Because family should show up.”
I wasn't ready to call him family.
But I didn't send him away.
After breakfast, we visited St. Agnes.
The original children's residence had closed long ago.
Its stone chapel remained beside a cemetery, surrounded by tall maple trees.
Vanessa's mother had worked there as a volunteer after leaving St. Mary's.
That detail had come from Harrison, who had finally begun cooperating after Luca made it clear that any evidence of crimes would go to the authorities.
We went with Marco and a retired records administrator named Mrs. Evelyn Price.
She had been employed at St. Agnes for forty years.
When Luca showed her the old photograph, she removed her glasses.
“I remember Amelia Moretti.”
My heart raced.
“What about Samuel Bennett?”
She nodded slowly.
“He came here more than once.”
“Why?”
“To visit a child.”
Luca leaned forward.
“Which child?”
Mrs. Price looked at Oliver, who was sitting beside me with a coloring book.
Then she lowered her voice.
“A little boy named Anthony.”
Luca went still.
“Anthony?”
“Yes. He was brought here as an infant. Such a sweet baby.”
“Was he adopted?”
Mrs. Price shook her head.
“Not officially.”
Luca frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“His records were transferred. We were told he had gone into private care.”
“Who authorized it?”
“Mr. Carlo Bellini.”
The name settled over us.
Vanessa's father.
Again.
Mrs. Price continued.
“Years later, Samuel returned asking about Anthony. He was furious when he learned the boy had been moved.”
“How old was Anthony when he left?” Luca asked.
“Almost nine.”
I felt a chill.
The warehouse fire had occurred seventeen years ago.
A boy born twenty-six years earlier would have been nine.
“Was Anthony at the warehouse?” I asked.
Mrs. Price's expression changed.
“How do you know about that?”
I showed her the newspaper photograph.
She pressed a hand to her chest.
“Oh, my goodness.”
“Do you recognize him?”
She nodded.
“That's Anthony.”
Luca leaned closer.
“The child?”
“Yes.”
My heart raced.
The boy in the photograph hadn't died.
He had been carried out alive.
But the newspaper listed Daniel Bellini and Samuel Bennett as missing.
Luca stared at Mrs. Price.
“Where did Anthony go after the fire?”
She shook her head.
“I don't know. But someone came looking for him years later.”
“Who?”
“A young man.”
“What did he look like?”
“Dark hair. Blue eyes. He had a scar above his left eyebrow.”
Luca slowly leaned back.
I recognized the description from something else.
The newspaper clipping showed a small mark above the rescued child's eyebrow.
Mrs. Price continued.
“He said he was Anthony Doyle.”
Luca whispered, “My brother.”
She nodded.
“He wanted to know where his mother was.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That Catherine Doyle had left Chicago years earlier.”
“And?”
Mrs. Price looked uncomfortable.
“He began crying.”
I imagined a grown man standing in this chapel, searching for the mother he had never known.
Mrs. Price opened a desk drawer.
“He left something.”
She withdrew a small blue coat.
Old.
Carefully folded.
The silver buttons had dulled.
I recognized it immediately from Vanessa's description.
“The baby coat,” I whispered.
Mrs. Price nodded.
“He said it was the only thing he had from his childhood.”
Luca touched the fabric.
“Why did he leave it?”
“He said if anyone from the Moretti family ever came asking, I should give it to them.”
Luca looked up.
“Did he leave a message?”
Mrs. Price reached into the coat's pocket.
A small folded card rested inside.
She handed it to him.
Luca unfolded it.
I watched his expression change.
“What does it say?”
He swallowed.
Then read aloud.
To Luca Moretti.
I don't blame you for what our father did.
But if you want to find me, stop looking for a missing child.
Start looking for the man who saved him.
Below the words was a signature.
Daniel Bellini.
I stared at it.
“My father?”
Luca looked equally shocked.
Mrs. Price nodded toward the card.
“There's something else.”
On the back was a handwritten address.
A small house in Pittsburgh.
I recognized the street immediately.
It was two blocks from the railway station where Grandpa had worked.
May you like
And beneath the address were seven words.
“Ask Anna why Samuel never told her.”
