Chapter 5 - THE MOTHER WHO NEVER STOPPED SEARCHING
“Who was the baby's mother?”
Luca remained kneeling beside Teresa's wheelchair.
His mother looked toward the old hospital corridor.
“Her name was Rose.”
Richard stiffened.
“Rose who?”
“Rose Sullivan. She worked in the laundry at St. Agnes.”
I noticed Richard's expression change.
He knew the name.
Luca noticed, too.
“Richard?”
Richard slowly removed his glasses.
“Rose Sullivan filed a complaint against my father's hospital charity in 1988.”
Teresa closed her eyes.
“She came to our house after they took her baby.”
“Why?” Luca asked.
“Because she thought Giovanni could help.”
Teresa looked at her son.
“She said the hospital had told her the baby was stillborn. But she'd heard him crying. A nurse let her hold him for a few minutes before someone took him away.”
My stomach tightened.
“And Anna saw him?” I asked.
Teresa nodded.
“Rose came to our house with the baby once, before everything happened. Anna loved holding his little sock. She called him Baby Blue because of his blanket.”
She touched the yellow fabric in her lap.
“Then Rose came back crying. She said they'd stolen him.”
Luca frowned.
“How did Anna disappear because of that?”
Teresa struggled to remember.
“Rose had brought something. A photograph, I think. She wanted Giovanni to see it.”
“And?”
“Eleanor came that morning. There was an argument. I took you upstairs because you were crying.”
Her voice broke.
“When I came back, Rose was gone. Anna was gone. And Eleanor told me not to ask questions.”
Richard stared at the ledger.
“My father wrote that Rose withdrew her complaint.”
Teresa shook her head.
“She never would have.”
Luca stood.
“Where is she now?”
Richard searched through the papers again.
“The account notes say she relocated to Ohio.”
“That's not an answer.”
“No,” Richard admitted. “It isn't.”
Vanessa looked exhausted.
The woman who had arrived at the engagement dinner in red silk now stood with ruined makeup and trembling hands.
“I know something about Rose Sullivan.”
Everyone turned.
“My mother mentioned her years ago.”
Luca waited.
“She said Rose was dangerous because she wouldn't accept what happened to her child.”
“What happened to her child?” Claire asked.
Vanessa shook her head.
“I don't know. I was sixteen when I overheard it.”
Luca regarded her silently.
Then he said, “You can tell the police what you remember.”
Vanessa looked startled.
“The police?”
“Yes.”
“Luca, our families have always handled their own problems.”
He looked at Teresa.
“That's how this went on for thirty-eight years.”
Nobody answered.
For a moment, I thought of the reputation surrounding Luca Moretti.
People said his family settled disputes without courts, contracts, or witnesses.
I'd never asked how much of that was true.
But watching him stand beside his mother's wheelchair, I understood that he had reached a choice his father had apparently avoided.
He could protect the family name.
Or he could protect the people the family name had hurt.
“Marco,” Luca said, “secure copies of everything in this room. Nothing leaves without being recorded.”
Then he turned toward Richard.
“You'll give investigators access to the Bellini accounts.”
Richard hesitated.
“My company is tied to some of those trusts.”
Luca held his gaze.
“So was Anna's childhood.”
Richard looked down.
“All right.”
We returned to the Moretti mansion shortly before midnight.
Teresa fell asleep almost immediately.
I helped her into bed, placed the yellow blanket over her shoulders, and set the photograph of Anna and Emma beside her lamp.
She reached for my hand.
“Claire?”
“Yes?”
“Do you think she'll want to see me?”
I sat beside her.
“I think she has been trying very hard to see you.”
Teresa looked at the photograph.
“What if she hates me?”
I swallowed.
“Then you'll listen to her. And you'll tell her the truth.”
The old woman nodded.
“Will you come with me?”
“If you want me there.”
“I do.”
She closed her eyes.
“Thank you for not taking my blanket.”
I stayed until her breathing became steady.
Downstairs, I found Luca standing in his father's study.
The room smelled faintly of cedar and old books.
On the desk lay a silver pocket watch.
I recognized it from a photograph of Giovanni Moretti.
Luca noticed me looking.
“My father carried it every day.”
He picked it up.
“It stopped the afternoon he died.”
“I'm sorry.”
He gave a tired smile.
“Tonight I'm not sure which parts of him I knew.”
I didn't know what to say.
He looked toward the staircase.
“How's Mom?”
“Sleeping.”
“Thank you.”
There was a long silence.
Then he said, “Vanessa told Marco to pack her things.”
I nodded.
“She has a place to stay?”
“Her brother's house.”
He set down the watch.
“I thought I was marrying someone who understood the burden of our families.”
His voice grew quieter.
“I didn't realize she'd been helping carry a lie.”
I watched him turn the pocket watch over.
A tiny engraving marked the back.
A.M.M.
“Those are Anna's initials,” I said.
Luca looked at it.
“They are.”
He pressed the release.
The watch opened.
Inside the cover was a photograph of a little girl with brown curls, sitting on a man's shoulders.
Giovanni and Anna.
Luca studied it.
“I always thought that was a cousin.”
“Maybe your father kept it because he couldn't bear to forget her.”
He closed the watch carefully.
“Maybe.”
Then Marco appeared with a folder.
“Sir, we've located a woman named Rose Sullivan.”
Luca turned.
“Where?”
“Columbus, Ohio. She ran a small alterations shop until she retired.”
“Is she alive?”
“Yes.”
Relief passed over Luca's face.
“Have you contacted her?”
“Not yet. But I found a public interview she gave to a local newspaper twelve years ago.”
Marco handed him the printout.
The headline read:
MOTHER STILL SEARCHES FOR SON TAKEN AT CHICAGO HOSPITAL.
The photograph showed a silver-haired woman seated beside an antique sewing machine.
Across her lap lay a faded blue baby blanket.
Luca read silently.
Then his expression changed.
“What is it?” I asked.
He handed me the article.
Rose had spent decades searching for her son.
She'd been told he died in 1988.
But she had kept one thing the hospital had overlooked.
A photograph taken by a nurse shortly after his birth.
The photograph showed Rose holding her newborn.
On the baby's right wrist was a distinctive red birthmark.
Beneath the article, Rose had said she would recognize it anywhere.
Marco placed a second photograph on the desk.
It showed Samuel Kessler standing beside his adult son at a recent business conference.
His son's right wrist was visible.
And there, beneath his watchband, was a red mark.
Luca stared at the photograph.
“Who is he?”
Marco hesitated.
“His name is Daniel Kessler.”
Luca frowned.
“Why do I recognize that name?”
Marco's voice lowered.
“Because Daniel Kessler is the attorney representing the Bellini Medical Trust.”
The room fell silent.
May you like
Then Marco added something that made Luca grip the edge of the desk.
“And this morning, Daniel filed an emergency petition asking the court to declare your mother incapable of managing her own affairs.”
