Chapter 4 - THE BABY WHO WASN'T SUPPOSED TO EXIST
For several seconds, I couldn't move.
The hospital bracelet rested in my palm.
My birthday.
My surname.
A baby girl.
I looked at Daniel, who was waiting beside the open car door.
“Please take me back inside.”
He noticed my face.
“Claire, are you all right?”
“No.”
That was the only honest answer I had.
Minutes later, I stood in Luca's study with the bracelet in my hand.
Luca read the label.
His expression changed.
“Where did you find this?”
“In the coat pocket.”
“Who gave you the coat?”
“The house manager.”
He called for Mrs. Porter, the woman who had supervised the household for nearly twenty years.
She arrived looking concerned.
“Mr. Moretti?”
“Where did Claire's coat come from?”
“The downstairs closet, sir.”
“Was this inside it?”
He showed her the bracelet.
Mrs. Porter went pale.
“I thought that was gone.”
My heart pounded.
“You knew about it?”
She looked at Eleanor.
The old woman was sitting near the fireplace, watching us.
“Mrs. Moretti asked me to keep certain things safe after her fall,” Mrs. Porter explained. “I placed them in an old wool coat because Vanessa had begun clearing out the family closets.”
“Why put the coat on Claire?” Luca asked.
Mrs. Porter looked embarrassed.
“I didn't know the bracelet was still there. I was trying to find something warm for her.”
I examined the coat.
Dark blue wool.
Large wooden buttons.
One loose thread along the collar.
I'd seen it before.
Eleanor sometimes held it against her chest when she was upset.
She called it Elizabeth's coat.
I had assumed it belonged to a grown daughter who had died long ago.
Luca turned to his mother.
“Mom, why does this bracelet have Claire's birthday?”
Eleanor looked at me.
Her expression softened.
“Because there were two little girls.”
Thomas's head snapped up.
“What?”
Eleanor nodded slowly.
“One was my daughter. The other belonged to the family who protected her.”
I felt dizzy.
“Do you mean my mother?”
She shook her head.
“Rose.”
I stared at her.
“Aunt Rose?”
Eleanor began crying.
“Rose had a baby. The baby didn't survive.”
The room went silent.
Thomas rubbed his forehead.
“I remember something about a stillbirth in the Bennett family.”
Eleanor shook her head.
“Not stillborn. She lived three days.”
My eyes filled.
Nobody had ever told me Aunt Rose had lost a baby.
Eleanor reached toward the bracelet.
“Margaret kept it because Rose couldn't bear to throw it away.”
I looked down again.
The bracelet wasn't proof that I had another identity.
It belonged to a child whose short life had been hidden beneath decades of grief.
But one question remained.
“Why was it in Elizabeth's coat?”
Eleanor looked at the fireplace.
“Because Rose promised never to lose another girl.”
That sentence stayed with me.
Rose hadn't simply raised Elizabeth.
She had loved her after losing a daughter.
And perhaps that love had become tangled with fear.
Luca looked at Thomas.
“I want to know who handled Elizabeth's trust and who issued the letter.”
Thomas nodded.
“I'll provide what I have.”
Luca's expression hardened.
“Not just what is convenient.”
The attorney lowered his eyes.
“I understand.”
I left for urgent care after that.
The doctor found deep bruising, a strained shoulder, and swelling around my forearm. Nothing was broken, but I needed rest.
When I returned the next morning, Luca was waiting in the breakfast room.
He'd changed into a dark sweater and looked as though he hadn't slept.
“Claire, your mother is at St. Agnes Medical Center?”
I nodded.
“She goes there for treatment.”
“I'd like to speak with her, but only if she agrees.”
I hesitated.
“My mother doesn't like strangers asking family questions.”
“Then I'll listen while you ask.”
That was different from what I'd expected.
For a man who could command almost anyone in Chicago, Luca seemed determined not to command me.
We drove to the hospital that afternoon.
Mom was sitting beside a window in the outpatient waiting area.
Margaret Bennett was fifty-three, with gentle brown eyes and hands roughened by years of work.
When she saw Luca, her face went white.
“Claire.”
I approached her.
“Mom, I need you to tell me about Elizabeth.”
She looked down.
“Not here.”
“Where, then? You've had twenty-five years.”
She flinched.
I regretted the sharpness immediately, but I couldn't take the words back.
Luca stepped away to give us privacy.
Mom reached for my injured arm.
“What happened?”
“Vanessa Bellini.”
Her face changed.
“Antonio's daughter?”
“You know him?”
She closed her eyes.
“Of course it's Antonio's daughter.”
I sat beside her.
“Mom, please.”
For a long moment, she said nothing.
Then she began.
“Rose was twenty-four when she agreed to care for Elizabeth. The child was frightened, and nobody told us the whole truth. We were told Giovanni Moretti had enemies.”
“Who told you?”
“Antonio Bellini.”
I felt cold.
“He said bringing Elizabeth home would put everyone at risk.”
“Did you believe him?”
“For a while.”
She opened her purse and removed an old photograph.
It showed Elizabeth at about twelve, sitting between Rose and my mother.
“She asked about her real parents every Christmas,” Mom whispered. “Rose told her they loved her, but couldn't come.”
My eyes burned.
“And you?”
“I told her that sometimes adults make decisions children shouldn't have to carry.”
I stared at the photograph.
“Did you know she was alive when I came to work for Luca?”
“Yes.”
“Then why didn't you tell me?”
Mom started crying.
“Because I was afraid you'd get hurt.”
“You sent me into that house.”
“No.”
She gripped my hand.
“Rose suggested you apply. I begged her not to involve you.”
My stomach dropped.
“She told me you approved.”
Mom shook her head.
“I never did.”
Across the waiting room, Luca watched our expressions without approaching.
I asked the question that hurt most.
“Did Rose know Vanessa?”
Mom nodded.
“Yes.”
“Were they working together?”
“No. Rose was trying to get money she believed Elizabeth was owed. Vanessa offered to help.”
“And you trusted her?”
Mom looked at me.
“I didn't.”
Then she reached into her purse again.
This time she took out a small envelope.
Inside was a receipt for a certified letter mailed to Giovanni Moretti many years earlier.
“Rose found this in an old box last month. She wanted me to give it to you if anything happened.”
“What was in the letter?”
Mom's voice trembled.
“Elizabeth's address. Rose finally decided Giovanni deserved to know where his daughter was.”
I looked at the delivery date.
Giovanni had received it.
Three months before his death.
“He knew,” I whispered.
Mom nodded.
“He knew.”
I turned the receipt over.
On the back was a handwritten message.
He promised to come for her on Sunday.
May you like
Beneath it was another sentence.
But Antonio came instead.
