PART 2.
The abandoned bag was bad enough.
But the voice on the phone changed everything.
“You still think this started last night.”
Then the line went dead.
For the first time, I understood that Isabella hadn’t been taken because she happened to walk away alone.
Someone had been waiting for the moment I left my wife unprotected.
And somehow, they had known that moment was coming.
“Trace it again.”
Marco’s fingers moved quickly across the tablet while two of my men searched Isabella’s childhood house room by room.
“There’s nothing else,” he said.
“Signal bounced through three towers before it died.
Industrial district near the river is the closest I can get.”
“Then we search every building.”
“Luca—”
“Every building.”
Marco looked at me.
Usually, that was enough.
One look from me and people stopped arguing.
But Marco had worked beside me for fourteen years.
He had seen me angry, wounded, betrayed, and once with a gun pressed against my ribs.
He had never seen me afraid.
Until now.
“Whoever did this wants you moving without thinking,” he said quietly.
I looked at Isabella’s open travel bag on the floor.
Her mother’s photograph stared up at me.
“They have my wife.”
“I know.”
“Then thinking is finished.”
I turned toward the door.
Marco caught my arm.
“Look at the message again.”
I stopped.
YOU LEFT HER ALONE.
SO WE TOOK HER.
“What about it?”
“They didn't say we found her alone.”
I stared at him.
Marco continued.
“They said you left her alone.”
The distinction hit me like cold water.
Someone hadn’t simply followed Isabella.
Someone knew about our argument.
Maybe they had heard it.
Maybe they had watched it.
Or maybe—
I slowly looked toward the open front door.
“Someone told them.”
Marco nodded.
Neither of us said the next part aloud.
Only a handful of people knew what happened between Isabella and me that night.
The guards.
The housekeepers.
The driver.
And the men at dinner.
Which meant the person responsible might not have been watching from outside my world.
They might already have been inside it.
—
We returned to the mansion twenty-eight minutes later.
I ordered every employee who had worked the previous night into the main dining room.
Nobody left.
Nobody made calls.
Nobody touched a phone.
Twenty-three people stood around the long walnut table where Isabella had hosted birthdays, Christmas dinners, and charity meetings.
Now it looked like an interrogation room.
I stood at the head of the table.
“Someone knew my wife left this house alone.”
Silence.
“Someone knew where she was going.”
More silence.
“And someone may have told the people who took her.”
A housekeeper began crying quietly.
One of the younger guards stared at the floor.
Marco stood near the doors, watching everyone.
I noticed Antonio near the far wall.
He had been stationed at the entrance when Isabella left.
“You.”
Antonio straightened.
“Sir?”
“You saw her leave.”
“Yes.”
“Did you follow her?”
His face changed.
“No, sir.”
“Did you offer her a car?”
He hesitated.
That hesitation almost cost him.
I crossed the room so quickly that two men instinctively moved forward.
“Answer me.”
“I did.”
“And?”
“She refused.”
My jaw tightened.
“What exactly did she say?”
Antonio swallowed.
“She said she wanted to walk.”
“In the rain?”
“Yes.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you call me?”
Antonio looked directly at me.
And then he said something nobody in that room would normally dare say.
“Because Mrs.
Rossi told me not to.”
My hands curled into fists.
“She was upset,” he continued carefully.
“She said you wanted to be left alone, and she didn't want anyone disturbing you because of her.”
The shame was immediate.
Even after I had refused her—
Isabella had still been protecting me from inconvenience.
“Did anyone follow her?”
“I didn't see anyone.”
“Did you tell anyone where she was going?”
“No.”
“Did she?”
He thought.
Then his expression shifted.
“She made a phone call.”
My heartbeat changed.
“To whom?”
“I don't know.”
“When?”
“Outside the gate.
Maybe a minute after she left.”
Marco immediately turned to one of our technical men.
“Pull the phone records.”
“I already did,” the man answered.
“Mrs.
Rossi made one outgoing call at 11:48 P.M.”
“To?”
He looked uncomfortable.
“Number isn't saved.”
“Who owns it?”
“We're checking.”
I held out my hand.
“Give me the number.”
The technician read it aloud.
I entered it into my phone and called.
One ring.
Two.
Three.
Then—
“Hello?”
A man.
Older.
I put the call on speaker.
“Who is this?”
Silence.
Then the man said:
“I could ask you the same thing.”
“This is Luca Rossi.”
Another silence.
But not fear.
Recognition.
“Oh.”
That single word made every person in the room look at me.
“Did Isabella call you last night?”
“Yes.”
“Who are you?”
“My name is Father Gabriel.”
A priest.
I remembered him.
Isabella had known him since childhood.
He had presided over her mother’s funeral.
“What did she say?”
“That is between Isabella and me.”
My temper flared.
“My wife is missing.”
Everything changed on the other end.
“What?”
“She disappeared from her childhood home early this morning.”
The priest breathed sharply.
Then he said, “Dear God.”
“What did she tell you?”
Another pause.
“She asked if she could come to the church.”
“Why?”
“She said she needed somewhere safe to think.”
Safe.
The word cut deeper than any accusation.
“Safe from whom?”
Father Gabriel hesitated.
“Mr.
Rossi…”
“Safe from me?”
“No.”
My chest loosened for half a second.
Then he continued.
“She was afraid of someone else.”
Every person in the room became still.
“Who?”
“She wouldn't tell me over the phone.”
“Did she come to you?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“She called again.”
I looked at the technician.
He shook his head.
No second outgoing call.
“When?”
“Shortly after two.”
“From her phone?”
“No.
Another number.”
“What did she say?”
Father Gabriel lowered his voice.
“She said she had changed her mind.
She told me not to contact her again.”
“That doesn't sound like Isabella.”
“I know.”
Something in his tone made my stomach tighten.
“What aren't you telling me?”
There was a long silence.
Then the priest answered.
“She wasn't alone.”
I gripped the phone.
“How do you know?”
“Because before she disconnected, I heard a woman beside her say, ‘Tell him you're fine.’”
Marco and I looked at each other.
A woman.
The same kind of voice that had called me.
“Did you recognize her?”
“No.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Isabella sounded frightened.”
My blood went cold.
Then Father Gabriel said, “But there was something strange.”
“What?”
“She didn't say goodbye.”
I almost shouted at him.
Instead, I forced myself to remain silent.
The priest continued.
“Isabella always says, ‘God keep you, Father.’
Her mother taught her that when she was a child.
She says it every time.”
“And this time?”
“She said, ‘Tell Mama I remembered the blue flowers.’”
My breathing stopped.
“What does that mean?”
“I don't know.”
But I did.
Not completely.
But enough.
Years earlier, Isabella had once taken me to her mother’s grave.
Blue hydrangeas surrounded the headstone.
Her mother’s favorite flowers.
And beneath them—
A small engraved metal plaque.
I remembered Isabella touching it.
THE TRUTH ALWAYS COMES HOME.
“Marco.”
He was already moving.
—
The cemetery stood on the northern edge of the city.
We arrived with four vehicles.
I reached Isabella’s mother’s grave first.
Blue hydrangeas moved in the wind.
Nothing looked disturbed.
Marco examined the headstone.
“Maybe she meant something else.”
“No.”
I crouched.
Isabella never said things without reason.
Especially when she was frightened.
I pushed aside the flowers.
There.
Behind the stone.
A small waterproof envelope had been taped beneath the memorial plaque.
My name was written across it.
LUCA.
I tore it open.
Inside was a key.
And a handwritten note.
My wife’s handwriting.
If you're reading this, then I was right to be afraid.
For several seconds, I couldn’t move.
Marco read over my shoulder.
There was more.
Locker 317.
Central Station.
Don't send your men.
Don't trust anyone who attended dinner.
My eyes went immediately to Marco.
He had attended dinner.
He saw it too.
Something painful passed across his face.
“Go,” he said.
I didn't answer.
“Isabella told you not to trust anyone who attended that dinner.
That includes me.”
“You've protected me for fourteen years.”
“And tonight isn't about you.”
He stepped backward.
“Go alone.”
—
Central Station was crowded.
That was probably why Isabella had chosen it.
Cameras everywhere.
Hundreds of witnesses.
Locker 317 stood near the eastern platforms.
The key fit.
Inside was a black folder.
A flash drive.
And another note.
Luca, if something happens to me, please listen before you become angry.
I closed my eyes.
Even now.
Even terrified.
She knew me well enough to predict anger before grief.
I inserted the flash drive into a laptop inside my car.
One video file appeared.
I opened it.
Isabella filled the screen.
She was sitting somewhere I didn't recognize.
No makeup.
Hair tied back.
She looked exhausted.
But calm.
“Luca,” she began, “if you're seeing this, then something went wrong.”
I leaned toward the screen.
“For the last four months, I've been receiving messages.”
My stomach dropped.
“Anonymous at first.
Photographs.
Times.
Places I've been.
At the market.
At the foundation.
At Mama's grave.”
I could barely breathe.
Why hadn’t she told me?
As if she heard the question, Isabella answered it.
“I didn't tell you because I knew what you would do.”
I looked away.
“You would find someone to punish before finding out why they were doing it.”
She knew me.
Too well.
“Then the messages changed.
They started mentioning your father.”
My eyes returned to the screen.
My father had been dead eleven years.
“They said the official story about his death was false.”
I froze.
My father, Vittorio Rossi, had died in what everyone called a heart attack.
I had been twenty-nine.
Isabella continued.
“At first, I thought someone was trying to manipulate me.
Then they sent me documents.”
She lifted several photocopied pages.
“Financial records.
Payments.
Names.
Dates.”
Her voice trembled slightly.
“Luca, someone inside the Rossi organization has been moving money for more than a decade.”
I stared at the screen.
“And I think your father discovered it.”
A cold pressure formed behind my ribs.
“That may be why he died.”
I stopped the video.
For several seconds, I sat motionless.
My father’s death had shaped everything.
The responsibilities I inherited.
The enemies I made.
The man I became.
I pressed play again.
Isabella took a breath.
“There’s something else.”
Of course there was.
“The person sending me these messages finally asked to meet.”
My jaw tightened.
“I went.”
“Damn it, Isabella.”
“She showed me evidence I couldn't ignore.”
She.
A woman.
“She told me the person responsible is still close to you.”
My fingers tightened around the laptop.
“And she told me something about my own family.”
Isabella looked away from the camera.
When she looked back, there were tears in her eyes.
“My mother knew.”
The screen blurred for a second because my vision did.
“Luca, our families were connected before we ever met.”
I felt the air leave my lungs.
That was impossible.
I had met Isabella at a charity event when she was twenty-six.
Or at least that was what I believed.
“She said our marriage wasn't arranged.
Our love wasn't fake.
But someone knew we would eventually meet.”
I whispered, “Who?”
As though Isabella could answer me through the recording.
She did.
“Your father.”
I stopped breathing.
“Your father knew my mother.”
The video continued.
“Not romantically.
They were trying to expose something together.”
I stared at Isabella’s face.
“And my mother died before they could.”
Her mother had died in a car accident.
Vittorio Rossi died eight months later.
Two deaths.
Two families.
And now Isabella.
“I don't know who I can trust,” she said.
“That's why I hid this.”
Then she leaned closer to the camera.
“But if something happens to me, there is one person you need to find.”
She wrote a name on a piece of paper and held it toward the camera.
Elena Moretti.
I knew that name.
Everyone in my world did.
Elena Moretti had been the daughter of one of my father’s closest associates.
And she had been dead for twelve years.
Her car had gone into the river.
The body had never been recovered.
I watched the final seconds.
Isabella’s voice softened.
“And Luca…”
She paused.
“If you're angry because I kept this from you, be angry later.”
A sad smile appeared.
“Find me first.”
The video ended.
I sat alone in the car.
Then my phone rang.
Marco.
I answered.
“Luca, where are you?”
“What happened?”
“We found something on the mansion footage.”
My heartbeat accelerated.
“What?”
“You need to see it.”
“Tell me.”
A pause.
Then:
“Isabella wasn't the only person who returned to the mansion at 1:43.”
I said nothing.
“A car stopped two streets away six minutes earlier.”
“So?”
“The driver never approached the gate.”
“Who was it?”
“We enhanced the traffic camera.”
Marco sounded like he was struggling to believe his own words.
“It was Sofia.”
My blood turned cold.
Sofia Rossi.
My younger sister.
—
When I returned to the mansion, Sofia was already there.
She stood in my office wearing a beige coat, her dark hair pulled behind her shoulders.
She looked furious.
“What is this?” she demanded.
“Your men dragged me out of my apartment.”
“Where were you last night?”
Her anger disappeared.
“Excuse me?”
“Answer.”
“At home.”
“Wrong.”
Marco placed a photograph on the desk.
Sofia looked down.
A car.
Her car.
Near my mansion.
1:37 A.M.
She went pale.
“Luca—”
“You were here.”
“No.”
“The camera says otherwise.”
“I can explain.”
“Then explain.”
She looked toward Marco.
“Alone.”
“He stays.”
“Luca.”
“He stays.”
Sofia closed her eyes.
Then she whispered:
“I was meeting Isabella.”
My heart stopped.
“Why?”
“She called me.”
“You told me you hadn't spoken to her.”
“I lied.”
The room seemed to shrink.
“Why?”
“Because she made me promise.”
I slammed my hand against the desk.
“She's missing!”
“I KNOW!”
Sofia shouted it so loudly that even Marco flinched.
Tears filled her eyes.
“I know.”
I stared at my sister.
“What did she tell you?”
Sofia sat down slowly.
“She thought someone was watching her.”
“I know.”
Her head snapped up.
“You know?”
“I found the recording.”
Sofia’s face drained of color.
“What recording?”
“The one about Elena Moretti.”
That was when I saw it.
Not confusion.
Recognition.
“You know her.”
Sofia said nothing.
I walked around the desk.
“You know Elena.”
“She isn't what you think.”
“She's dead.”
“No.”
The word was barely audible.
Marco straightened.
I stared at Sofia.
“What did you say?”
“Elena Moretti is alive.”
Silence swallowed the room.
“Where?”
“I don't know.”
“You're lying.”
“I swear.”
“How do you know she's alive?”
Sofia wiped tears from her face.
“Because I've met her.”
My entire body went still.
“When?”
“Three months ago.”
“And you didn't tell me?”
“She told me if I did, Isabella would be in danger.”
I almost laughed.
“She is in danger.”
“I know!”
Sofia stood.
“You think everything can be solved by putting armed men around people.
You think protection means guards and gates and cameras.”
Her voice broke.
“But Isabella knew better.”
I stared at her.
“What does that mean?”
“It means the danger wasn't outside your gates.”
I thought of Isabella’s note.
Don't trust anyone who attended dinner.
“Who?”
Sofia shook her head.
“I don't know.”
I grabbed her shoulders.
“WHO?”
“I DON'T KNOW!”
Marco stepped between us.
“Luca.”
I released her.
Sofia was crying now.
“Elena said Vittorio discovered someone was betraying the family.
Someone so close that exposing them would have destroyed everything.”
“My father would've told me.”
“No.”
Sofia looked at me with an expression I couldn't understand.
“He couldn't.”
“Why?”
“Because the person he suspected was family.”
That silenced me.
“Who?”
“Elena never gave me the name.”
“Then why contact Isabella?”
“Because Isabella's mother had hidden the last piece of evidence.”
The childhood house.
I understood immediately.
“That’s why they took her there.”
Sofia nodded.
“They weren't waiting for Isabella to be alone because they wanted her.”
Her voice dropped.
“They were waiting because they needed her to lead them to whatever her mother had hidden.”
My phone rang.
Unknown number.
Nobody moved.
I answered.
“Isabella?”
A breath.
Then—
“Luca?”
My knees nearly gave way.
Her voice.
My wife.
“Isabella.”
“Don't—”
The connection cracked.
“Where are you?”
“I don't know.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
She sounded terrified, but conscious.
“Listen to me.
I'm coming.”
“No!”
Her sudden shout stopped me.
“Don't come looking for me.”
“What?”
“They want you to.”
“Who?”
“I don't know.”
“Isabella, listen—”
“Luca, they're using me to bring you somewhere.”
I looked at Marco.
He was already tracing.
“Where?”
“I heard them mention Pier 19.”
Marco wrote it down.
I started moving.
Then Isabella shouted:
“NO!”
I stopped.
“They know you'll bring Marco.”
Everything inside the room changed.
Slowly, I looked at him.
Marco looked equally stunned.
“What did you say?”
I whispered.
Isabella’s breathing became uneven.
“They keep asking whether Marco found the station locker.”
Marco stepped backward.
Sofia covered her mouth.
My hand moved instinctively toward the weapon beneath my jacket.
Marco saw it.
“Luca.”
I ignored him.
“Isabella, how do they know about Marco?”
“I don't know.”
Then we heard a door open on her side.
Isabella inhaled sharply.
A woman spoke in the background.
“Time's up.”
The same voice.
The woman who had called me from Isabella’s childhood home.
“Elena?”
I shouted.
Silence.
Then the woman laughed softly.
“So she found the video.”
“Where is my wife?”
“Still asking the wrong question, Luca.”
“I swear to God—”
“Your father used to threaten people the same way.”
My blood froze.
“You knew my father.”
“I knew him better than you did.”
Sofia stared at me.
Marco remained motionless.
“Who are you?”
“You already know.”
“Elena Moretti?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
Sofia closed her eyes.
I gripped the phone.
“If you touch Isabella—”
“I'm not the person you should fear.”
“Then release her.”
“I can't.”
“Why?”
“Because the man who took her isn't working for me.”
That answer changed everything.
“What?”
“I reached the house too late.”
I looked at Marco.
“What are you talking about?”
“I've spent four months trying to warn Isabella.”
“You sent those photographs?”
“Yes.”
“You frightened her.”
“I was trying to keep her alive.”
“By following her?”
“Because someone else was following her first.”
I felt sick.
“Who?”
Elena went silent.
Then she asked:
“Is Marco standing beside you?”
Every eye in the room turned toward him.
Marco's face hardened.
“Yes.”
“Put the phone on speaker.”
I did.
“Elena,” Marco said.
She laughed once.
Not kindly.
“Hello, Marco.”
“You know me?”
“Oh, I know you.”
Marco looked at me.
“I've never met this woman.”
Elena continued.
“Ask him where he was the night Vittorio Rossi died.”
Marco went completely still.
I stared at him.
“Marco?”
His jaw tightened.
“I was with your father.”
I felt as if the floor moved beneath me.
“You told me you were in Milan.”
“I lied.”
“Why?”
“Because Vittorio ordered me to.”
Elena’s voice came through the speaker.
“And ask him what Vittorio gave him before he died.”
Marco closed his eyes.
“Enough.”
“No,” I said.
He looked at me.
“What did my father give you?”
Marco said nothing.
I stepped closer.
“What did he give you?”
Finally, Marco reached beneath his shirt.
He pulled out a chain I had seen him wear for years.
On it hung a small silver key.
My father’s initials were engraved into the metal.
V.R.
I stared at it.
“What does it open?”
“I don't know.”
Elena laughed.
“You've had twelve years to figure it out.”
“I promised Vittorio I wouldn't.”
“Until when?”
Marco looked directly at me.
“Until Isabella was in danger.”
My heart stopped.
“My father knew Isabella?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I don't know everything.”
“Stop lying to me!”
“I'm not!”
His voice thundered across the office.
Then Marco said something that silenced every person in the room.
“Your father’s last words were about her.”
I couldn't breathe.
“What did he say?”
Marco looked at the key.
Then at me.
“He said, ‘When Isabella becomes a Rossi, everything begins.’”
Nobody spoke.
Not me.
Not Sofia.
Not even Elena on the phone.
Finally, I whispered:
“What does that mean?”
Marco shook his head.
“I've spent twelve years trying to understand.”
Then Elena said:
“I can tell you.”
My grip tightened around the phone.
“Then tell me.”
“Not over the phone.”
“Where?”
“Pier 19.”
My eyes narrowed.
“You just said the people holding Isabella want me there.”
“They do.”
“So why would I go?”
“Because Isabella is there.”
My blood ran cold.
“And because underneath Pier 19 is something your father hid twelve years ago.”
“What?”
“The reason he was killed.”
The call ended.
—
We arrived near the river after sunset.
Rain hammered against the windshield.
Pier 19 had been abandoned for almost fifteen years.
Old warehouses stood along the water like black skeletons.
Marco sat beside me.
Sofia had been ordered to remain at the mansion.
This time she hadn't argued.
Marco touched the silver key beneath his shirt.
“You don't trust me.”
It wasn't a question.
“I don't know.”
He nodded.
“Fair.”
“If you betrayed my father—”
“I didn't.”
“If you betrayed Isabella—”
“I would expect you to kill me.”
I looked at him.
Marco stared through the windshield.
“But get her home first.”
We entered the warehouse through a rusted side door.
No guards.
No voices.
Only dripping water and the distant sound of the river.
Then—
“Luca!”
Isabella.
I ran.
Her voice had come from somewhere below us.
We found stairs leading beneath the warehouse.
At the bottom was a steel door.
In its center—
A small lock.
Marco and I looked at each other.
He removed the silver key.
It fit.
The door opened.
A long underground corridor stretched ahead.
Lights were already burning.
Someone expected us.
“Isabella!”
“Luca!”
I followed her voice.
At the end of the corridor was another room.
I entered.
And stopped.
Isabella sat in a chair.
Her wrists were bound in front of her.
She looked exhausted.
Terrified.
But alive.
I crossed the room.
“Luca—wait!”
Too late.
The door slammed behind us.
Marco turned.
Locked.
I reached Isabella and cut the restraints.
She threw her arms around me.
For one second, nothing else existed.
I held my wife against my chest.
“I’m sorry.”
The words came without pride now.
Without hesitation.
“I’m sorry, Isabella.”
She buried her face against me.
“I know.”
“No.
You don't.
I should have followed you.
I should have—”
“Luca.”
She pulled back.
“We have to leave.”
“Who brought you here?”
“I never saw his face.”
“Man or woman?”
“Man.”
I looked around.
“Where's Elena?”
“I don't know.”
Then Marco called from the far side of the room.
“Luca.”
There was something in his voice.
We turned.
He had found a light switch.
A row of old fluorescent lights flickered on.
The room wasn't empty.
The walls were covered in photographs.
Hundreds of them.
My father.
Isabella’s mother.
Marco.
Sofia.
Me.
Isabella.
Dates.
Documents.
Maps.
A twelve-year history spread across concrete.
In the center was one enormous family tree.
ROSSI.
MORETTI.
And another surname.
BELLINI.
Isabella walked toward it.
“My mother's maiden name.”
Then I saw two photographs connected by a red line.
Vittorio Rossi.
Clara Bellini.
My father.
Isabella’s mother.
Underneath them were four words.
THEY FOUND OUT TOGETHER.
“Found out what?”
I whispered.
A projector suddenly switched on behind us.
We turned.
A video began playing against the wall.
My father appeared.
Older than I remembered him.
Tired.
Afraid.
He looked directly into the camera.
“If Luca is watching this, then I failed.”
I couldn't move.
Isabella reached for my hand.
My father continued.
“There is a traitor inside our family.”
My pulse thundered.
“He has been stealing from us, manipulating our enemies, and arranging deaths to protect himself.”
The video crackled.
“I trusted him.”
Marco stepped closer.
“So did Luca.”
My stomach twisted.
Then my father said:
“And when the time comes, he will use Isabella to control my son.”
Isabella gripped my hand.
The image distorted.
“No,” I whispered.
“Tell me who.”
My father leaned toward the camera.
“The traitor is—”
The video cut to black.
“No!”
I moved toward the projector.
Then a voice came from behind us.
“You always were impatient.”
I turned.
A man stood in the doorway.
Gray hair.
Black coat.
Older now.
But I knew that face.
I had seen it at every Christmas dinner of my childhood.
At my father's funeral.
At my wedding.
And less than twenty-four hours earlier—
he had been sitting across from Isabella at the private dinner.
My mouth went dry.
“Uncle Matteo?”
Matteo Rossi smiled.
Then he raised a pistol.
Not at me.
At Marco.
Isabella screamed.
Marco reached for his weapon.
A shot exploded through the room.
Marco fell.
“MARCO!”
I moved toward him.
“Don't.”
Matteo aimed at Isabella next.
I froze.
She stood beside me, shaking.
Matteo smiled.
“You still haven't learned, nephew.”
“Let her go.”
“You should have listened to your wife last night.”
My chest tightened.
“What?”
“She told you there had been enough blood.”
His smile widened.
“She had no idea how right she was.”
Behind him, another figure appeared.
A woman.
For a second, I thought it was Elena.
Then Isabella made a sound beside me.
Not fear.
Recognition.
The woman stepped into the light.
Isabella’s face went completely white.
Her fingers dug into my arm.
“No…”
I looked from my wife to the stranger.
The woman was perhaps sixty.
Her hair was silver at the temples.
Tears filled her eyes when she saw Isabella.
And around her neck—
Hung the exact same small gold necklace Isabella had inherited from her grandmother.
Isabella started trembling.
“That’s impossible.”
The woman whispered her name.
“Bella.”
Isabella stopped breathing.
I looked at her.
“Who is she?”
Isabella didn't answer.
She couldn't.
The woman took one step forward.
And my wife whispered the words that made everything we had discovered that night suddenly feel insignificant.
“Mom?”
Matteo smiled.
Because Isabella’s mother had supposedly been dead for thirteen years.
And yet Clara Bellini was standing directly in front of us.
Alive.
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Source: Stories of Destiny · Thao Thao
