Chapter 2 - THE LETTER THAT STOLE A BROTHER
“Somebody sent her a letter with your signature on it—and I know you never wrote it.”
Thomas Reed's words seemed to empty the air from Luca Moretti's dining room.
Forty-four guests stood frozen around the long table.
Luca looked at the attorney.
“Show me.”
Thomas hesitated.
“Mr. Moretti, perhaps we should discuss this privately.”
“You were comfortable discussing my sister's inheritance with my fiancée without telling me she existed. You can explain yourself in front of the same people who watched my mother get hurt.”
Vanessa stood beside the fireplace, her red silk gown trembling against her knees.
“Luca, please don't do this.”
He didn't turn.
“Thomas. The letter.”
The attorney opened his folder and removed a photocopy.
Luca took it.
I was sitting near Eleanor, holding a cold compress against my injured forearm. From where I sat, I could see the handwriting.
The signature looked like Luca's.
Even the sharp downward stroke beneath the final letter was identical.
He read aloud.
“Elizabeth, my father made arrangements concerning your welfare years ago. Those arrangements should not be mistaken for an invitation into my family.”
His voice became quieter.
“I have no intention of reopening matters that were settled before my birth. Please do not contact my mother.”
Eleanor made a broken sound.
“Oh, my boy.”
Luca continued reading silently.
Then he folded the paper.
“Where did you get this?”
Thomas adjusted his glasses.
“Elizabeth sent my office a copy six weeks ago. She wanted confirmation that the letter genuinely came from you.”
“And what did you tell her?”
Thomas looked toward Vanessa.
That single glance answered more than his words could.
“I told her I could not independently authenticate the signature.”
Luca stared at him.
“You let her believe I wrote it.”
“I didn't say that.”
“You didn't have to.”
Vanessa finally stepped forward.
“I was trying to protect your mother.”
Luca turned.
“From what? Her daughter?”
“From a woman who might not even be who she claims.”
Eleanor gripped the pearl necklace.
“She is my daughter.”
Vanessa's eyes flashed.
“You have trouble remembering what day it is, Eleanor.”
I felt the old woman's hand tighten around mine.
Luca's voice became dangerously calm.
“Do not use my mother's recovery to silence her again.”
Nobody spoke.
Then he turned toward Daniel, his security chief.
“Please escort our guests out. Quietly. Anyone who saw Claire being injured may be asked to give an accurate account.”
Vanessa's father, Antonio Bellini, stood near the end of the table.
He was a broad-shouldered man in his sixties, with tired eyes and an expensive gray suit.
“Luca, perhaps my daughter made a mistake.”
Luca faced him.
“She hurt my mother. She humiliated an employee. And she interfered with my family.”
Antonio lowered his gaze.
“I didn't know about the letter.”
Vanessa looked at her father.
“Dad.”
He said nothing.
As the guests began leaving, Luca approached me.
“Claire, you need medical attention.”
“It's just bruising, sir.”
“You couldn't hold your arm properly when I came in.”
I looked down.
He was right.
My shoulder ached every time I moved.
“I'm worried about losing my job.”
His expression softened.
“You're not losing your job for helping my mother.”
I swallowed.
“Mrs. Bellini said otherwise.”
“Vanessa doesn't make employment decisions in this house.”
For the first time that evening, I could breathe.
He turned to the house manager.
“Arrange transportation to urgent care and make sure Claire receives her full wages while she recovers.”
Then Eleanor spoke.
“Luca, don't let her leave yet.”
He knelt beside her.
“Mom?”
“Claire saw the photograph.”
I remembered the picture beneath Vanessa's jewelry box.
“Mr. Moretti, I saw another photograph two weeks ago. It had Elizabeth's name and age written on the back.”
Vanessa's face changed.
“That's impossible.”
I looked at her.
“It was beneath your jewelry box.”
She opened her mouth, then closed it.
Luca held up the photograph from his desk.
It showed a dark-haired woman with tired blue eyes, holding a little boy who appeared to be about four.
On the back, written in blue ink, were the words:
Elizabeth Bennett. Age twenty-nine. Daniel, age four.
I stopped breathing.
Bennett.
My last name.
It wasn't an unusual surname.
But the handwriting on the photograph looked familiar.
The rounded capital B.
The slightly crooked final letter.
It reminded me of my mother's handwriting.
Luca noticed my expression.
“What is it?”
“Nothing, sir. I just recognized the surname.”
Before he could ask more, Thomas spoke.
“Elizabeth wasn't raised as a Moretti. She was placed with the Bennett family.”
My heart began pounding.
“My mother's name is Margaret Bennett.”
Thomas looked at me.
“Do you know a woman named Margaret Bennett?”
“She's my mother.”
His face lost its color.
Vanessa whispered something I couldn't hear.
I stood so quickly that pain shot through my shoulder.
“What does my mother have to do with this?”
Thomas stared at me.
“Claire, where were you born?”
“Chicago.”
“Did your mother ever mention a woman named Rose?”
The room seemed to tilt.
Rose Bennett.
My aunt.
At least, that's what I'd always called her.
She lived outside Rockford now.
I hadn't seen her in nearly a year.
“She is my mother's older sister,” I said.
Thomas closed his eyes.
Luca stepped closer.
“Thomas.”
The attorney looked at him.
“Elizabeth Moretti was placed with a woman named Rose Bennett.”
I couldn't speak.
Eleanor began crying quietly.
I thought about Aunt Rose's small kitchen.
Her faded yellow curtains.
The photographs she kept on the refrigerator.
And the little girl whose picture had disappeared from the hallway years earlier.
A little girl everyone called Lizzie.
I remembered asking my mother why Aunt Rose never talked about her.
Mom had said it was complicated.
I had been six.
I'd stopped asking.
“Claire?”
Luca's voice brought me back.
“Did you know Elizabeth?”
“I knew someone called Lizzie when I was little. She was older than me.”
“Was she Rose's daughter?”
“I thought so.”
Thomas sat heavily in a chair.
“My God.”
Vanessa moved toward the doorway.
Daniel stepped aside but waited for Luca's instruction.
Luca didn't stop her.
Instead, he asked me something that made my skin go cold.
“Claire, why did you come to work here?”
I stared at him.
“Because your house manager hired me.”
“Did someone recommend you?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
I tried to remember.
My mother had mentioned the position during one of her hospital stays.
She said Aunt Rose had heard the Morettis needed additional staff.
Aunt Rose had insisted I apply.
I looked at the photograph again.
“Rose Bennett.”
Thomas covered his mouth.
Vanessa whispered, “This wasn't supposed to happen.”
Luca slowly turned toward her.
“What wasn't?”
She shook her head.
But Eleanor had heard.
She reached for my hand.
“Claire, sweetheart, your Aunt Rose didn't send you here to clean floors.”
A terrible silence settled over us.
I looked into Eleanor's tearful eyes.
“Then why did she send me?”
Eleanor squeezed my fingers.
“Because your mother has been trying to bring my daughter home.”
And before I could answer, Thomas opened the sealed envelope from Luca's desk.
Inside was a second photograph.
It showed my mother standing beside a younger Elizabeth.
May you like
Across the bottom were four handwritten words.
CLAIRE MUST NEVER KNOW.
