PART 2.
Around her finger was an old silver ring I had never noticed before.
A signet ring.
The corridor light caught its face.
And my blood went cold.
Because engraved into the metal was a symbol I had seen every day of my childhood.
My mother’s family crest.
For several seconds, nobody moved.
Mia stood between us clutching her stuffed rabbit.
Elena’s hand disappeared behind her back as if hiding the ring now could erase what I had already seen.
It couldn’t.
“Where did you get that?”
Elena’s lips parted.
No answer came.
I stepped closer.
“Where did you get my mother’s ring?”
“It isn’t your mother’s.”
The words came too quickly.
I looked at her hand again.
There was no mistaking the crest—a silver hawk with one wing raised, surrounded by tiny stars.
The Bellandi family symbol.
My grandfather had carved it above the gates of his villa in Naples.
My mother had worn the same crest on stationery, jewelry, even the wax seals she used on birthday cards when I was a boy.
“You told me you had never met my family.”
“I said I had never met you.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
Her eyes closed.
Behind me, the brass key remained inside my father’s locked drawer.
Everything suddenly felt connected.
The chair.
The key.
The drawer.
The ring.
Isabella recognizing Elena.
And my father, dead for six years, somehow sitting at the center of all of it.
“Elena.”
She opened her eyes.
“Tell me the truth.”
“You won’t believe me.”
“Try.”
She looked at Mia.
That single glance frightened me more than anything she had said.
“Elena, what does my family have to do with your daughter?”
Her face went white.
Mia looked up at her.
“Mommy?”
Elena bent immediately.
“Sweetheart, go find Mrs.
Doyle.”
“But—”
“Please.”
Mia hugged the rabbit against her chest.
“Is Uncle Luca angry?”
The question struck harder than it should have.
I crouched so we were eye level.
“No.
Not with you.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
She studied me, apparently deciding whether powerful men could be trusted.
Then she held out one tiny finger.
“Pinky promise.”
For the first time in several minutes, Elena almost smiled.
I hooked my finger around Mia’s.
“Pinky promise.”
Mia hurried away.
We listened until her footsteps disappeared.
Then Elena walked into my study and shut the door.
I didn’t sit.
Neither did she.
“Open the drawer,” she whispered.
I stared at her.
“You just told me not to.”
“I know.”
“What changed?”
Her eyes met mine.
“You saw the ring.”
I turned the key.
The lock clicked.
Strangely, the sound felt louder than a gunshot.
I pulled the drawer open.
Inside were three things.
A black leather folder.
A photograph.
And an envelope with my name written across the front.
Luca.
I recognized the handwriting instantly.
My father’s.
My chest tightened.
I reached for the photograph first.
It showed my mother standing beside a young woman outside a hospital.
The picture was old, perhaps fifteen years old.
My mother looked exactly as I remembered her—elegant, dark-haired, one hand resting lightly against the woman’s shoulder.
The younger woman had blonde hair.
Blue eyes.
A frightened expression.
I looked at Elena.
Then at the photograph.
“No.”
Elena said nothing.
“You’re too young.”
“That isn’t me.”
I looked again.
The resemblance was unmistakable.
“Who is she?”
“My mother.”
My fingers tightened around the photograph.
“Your mother knew mine?”
“She worked for your family.”
“In Italy?”
“And New York.”
I searched my memory.
There had been hundreds of employees throughout my childhood—drivers, cooks, gardeners, assistants, security men.
But my mother had kept only a few people close.
“What was her name?”
Elena hesitated.
“Claire Bennett.”
The name touched something distant in my memory.
Not a face.
A sound.
An argument.
My father shouting behind a closed door.
My mother saying, You cannot do this to Claire.
I had been seventeen.
I had forgotten it until now.
I looked at the black folder.
“What happened to her?”
“She died.”
“How?”
Elena’s jaw tightened.
“She was told it was an accident.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
“Because I don’t know the answer.”
I opened the folder.
The first page contained financial records.
Transfers.
Dates.
Account numbers.
Payments made by Moretti Holdings to a private company I did not recognize.
Romano Strategic Services.
My blood cooled.
Romano.
Isabella’s family.
The transfers went back more than twenty years.
Millions of dollars.
I turned another page.
Security reports.
Names.
Addresses.
Photographs.
My mother.
Claire Bennett.
Marco Bellini.
And Isabella’s father, Vittorio Romano.
“What is this?”
Elena stood perfectly still.
“The reason my mother died afraid.”
I looked at her sharply.
“She knew about these payments?”
“She discovered them.”
“How?”
“She was your mother’s personal assistant.”
Memory returned with brutal clarity.
Claire.
A soft-spoken blonde woman who used to bring my mother tea.
A woman who disappeared suddenly when I was eighteen.
My parents told me she had moved away.
“She didn’t leave.”
“No.”
“What happened?”
“My mother found evidence that your father and Vittorio Romano were moving money through shell companies.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know.”
“You came here four months ago carrying all of this information, and you don’t know?”
“I came here because I had nowhere else to go.”
“That’s not true.”
Her eyes flashed.
For the first time, I saw anger beneath the fear.
“You think I wanted this?”
“I think you lied to me.”
“Yes.”
The answer stopped me.
Elena stepped closer.
“I lied on my application.
I lied when you asked whether I knew your family.
I lied because the last person who tried telling a Moretti the truth was my mother.”
“And she died.”
“Yes.”
“Then why come here?”
She looked at the envelope.
“Because your mother told her to.”
Silence.
“My mother?”
“Before your mother died, she gave mine instructions.
She said if anything happened to her, Claire was supposed to find you.”
“But my mother died thirteen years ago.”
“And six months later, mine disappeared.”
“Disappeared?”
“They found her car near the Hudson.
They found blood inside it.
They never found her body.”
Every instinct I possessed sharpened.
“You just said she died.”
“I said I was told she died.”
“By whom?”
Elena swallowed.
“Vittorio Romano.”
The room seemed to contract around me.
“Isabella’s father told you your mother was dead?”
“He came to our apartment personally.”
“How old were you?”
“Sixteen.”
My hand slowly lowered.
“He came to a sixteen-year-old girl?”
“He gave me ten thousand dollars.
Told me my mother had been involved with dangerous people.
Told me to forget everything.”
“And you did?”
“For thirteen years.”
“What changed?”
“Mia.”
I frowned.
Elena folded her arms tightly across herself.
“After she was born, I started going through old boxes my mother had left with a friend.
I found letters.
Photographs.
Notes.”
“The ring?”
“Yes.”
“She left it for you?”
“No.”
Elena looked toward the photograph.
“Your mother did.”
I glanced at the crest again.
Inside the band was a tiny inscription.
I had not noticed it before.
I took Elena’s hand before thinking.
She stiffened.
I turned the ring carefully.
Three engraved letters appeared.
C.B.B.
Claire Bennett Bellandi.
My heart stopped.
Bellandi.
My mother’s maiden name.
I released Elena’s hand.
“What was your mother’s full name?”
Her voice barely rose above a whisper.
“Claire Sofia Bellandi Bennett.”
I stared at her.
“No.”
“My mother was your mother’s half sister.”
The room went silent.
I felt as though the floor had shifted beneath me.
“My grandfather had another daughter?”
“Apparently.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Is it?”
“My mother would have told me.”
“Would she?”
I started to answer.
Then stopped.
Because suddenly I remembered how many secrets I had discovered in ten minutes.
Elena gave a humorless laugh.
“I thought the same thing when I found out.”
“So you’re…”
“Your cousin.”
The word felt absurd.
Impossible.
Yet looking at her now, I saw things I had somehow missed.
The shape of her eyes.
The stubborn set of her jaw.
Even the way she tilted her head when she was trying not to cry.
My mother had done the same thing.
A chill ran over me.
“And Isabella knows?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
“She recognized you immediately.”
“Yes.”
“And she threatened you because of your mother?”
“Partly.”
“Partly?”
Elena’s expression changed.
The fear returned.
I noticed it.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
“Open the letter.”
I looked down.
The envelope bearing my name was yellowed at the edges.
Still sealed.
My father had hidden it.
I broke the seal.
Inside was a single page.
I read.
Luca,
If you are reading this, then I failed to keep the past buried.
*Your mother believed truth was a debt every man eventually paid.
I believed truth was a weapon best locked away.*
She was right.
My mouth went dry.
I kept reading.
Do not trust the Romano family.
Do not trust Marco Bellini.
My breathing stopped.
Marco.
My closest friend.
My brother in every way except blood.
I read the sentence again.
Do not trust Marco Bellini.
Elena was watching me.
“What does it say?”
I didn’t answer.
My eyes moved lower.
Most importantly, if Claire Bennett or her daughter ever returns to this house, protect them.
They possess evidence that could destroy everything.
And if Claire’s daughter has a child—
The sentence ended there.
The page had been torn.
I stared at the jagged edge.
“A child what?”
Elena moved beside me.
“What?”
“The letter is incomplete.”
She read over my shoulder.
Her face changed when she reached the final line.
“No.”
“What?”
She stepped back.
“Elena.”
“No.”
“What do you know?”
She shook her head.
“Nothing.”
Another lie.
I moved toward her.
“What does Mia have to do with this?”
“Nothing.”
“My father specifically wrote about your child.”
“He couldn’t have known about Mia.
He died before she was born.”
“He didn’t write Mia.
He wrote a child.”
Elena backed into the desk.
“Tell me.”
“I can’t.”
“Stop saying that.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Then make me understand.”
Her eyes filled.
“I came here because I thought I could find the rest of the evidence and leave before anyone noticed.”
“Isabella noticed.”
“Yes.”
“And now?”
“Now she knows exactly who I am.”
“Why hasn’t she fired you?”
Elena laughed softly.
It was a terrible sound.
“Because she doesn’t want me outside these gates.”
That silenced me.
“She wants to control where you are.”
“Yes.”
“And Mia.”
Elena looked away.
A cold, familiar instinct settled over me.
The same instinct that had guided me through hostile acquisitions, betrayals, threats, and men who smiled while planning to ruin me.
Except this time it was different.
This was inside my home.
I walked to the door and locked it.
Then I took out my phone.
“What are you doing?”
“Calling security.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“You can’t.”
“Watch me.”
She grabbed my wrist.
“Luca.”
It was the first time she had used my name without hesitation.
I looked at her hand on me.
She let go.
“If Isabella realizes I told you, she’ll know where to look next.”
“Where?”
Elena didn’t answer.
I stepped closer.
“Where?”
Her voice became almost inaudible.
“Mia’s rabbit.”
I stared at her.
“The stuffed rabbit?”
“My mother left me a safety-deposit key.
I used it three months ago.
Inside were documents and a memory card.
I hid the card inside Mia’s rabbit because nobody searches a child’s toy.”
My stomach dropped.
Mia had carried that rabbit everywhere.
Including through my house.
Including around Isabella.
“Where is Mia now?”
“With Mrs.
Doyle.”
I unlocked the door.
We ran.
The corridor was empty.
“Elena!”
She was already calling Mia’s name.
We reached the kitchen.
Mrs.
Doyle stood beside the island.
Alone.
“Where’s Mia?”
She turned.
“Miss Romano came for her.”
Elena stopped so suddenly I nearly collided with her.
“What?”
Mrs.
Doyle looked confused.
“She said you asked her to take Mia into the garden.”
Elena’s face became bloodless.
“I didn’t.”
I was already moving.
Outside, the late afternoon sun had turned the gardens gold.
“Mia!”
No answer.
We crossed the terrace.
The rose garden was empty.
The fountain courtyard.
Empty.
I called security.
“Lock every gate.”
A pause.
“Sir?”
“Now.”
Elena ran toward the east lawn.
Then we heard a child laughing.
Both of us stopped.
The sound came from the old greenhouse.
We reached it seconds later.
The glass door stood open.
Inside, Isabella crouched beside Mia among rows of white orchids.
She looked up calmly.
Mia sat on a bench eating a strawberry.
Her rabbit lay beside Isabella.
Its back seam had been cut open.
Elena made a sound like someone had struck her.
Isabella smiled.
“There you are.”
I walked inside.
“What are you doing?”
“Having a snack.”
“Step away from Mia.”
Isabella rose slowly.
Her cream dress remained immaculate despite the soil beneath her heels.
She looked at Elena.
Then at me.
And she understood.
Her smile faded.
“You opened the drawer.”
It wasn’t a question.
Elena went rigid.
I felt something inside me become very still.
“You knew about the drawer.”
Isabella sighed.
“I knew your father was sentimental.”
“Answer me.”
She looked almost disappointed.
“Luca, please don’t make this dramatic.”
“You threatened Elena.”
“Did she tell you that?”
“I heard you.”
Isabella glanced at Elena.
“That was careless.”
“Careless?”
“To let you overhear.”
Mia looked between us.
“Mommy?”
Elena moved toward her.
Isabella lifted one hand.
“Don’t.”
Elena froze.
I stepped between them.
“You don’t give orders in my house.”
Isabella’s eyes shifted to me.
Something changed in her face.
The warmth disappeared completely.
For the first time, I saw the woman beneath the performance.
Cold.
Patient.
Unimpressed.
“You still think this is your house?”
My pulse slowed.
“What did you say?”
She smiled faintly.
“You really have no idea what your father built, do you?”
I took another step.
“Where is the memory card?”
Isabella looked toward the rabbit.
“Gone.”
Elena’s breath caught.
“What did you do with it?”
“Nothing.”
“You cut open my daughter’s toy.”
“And found exactly what I expected.”
Mia began to cry.
Elena rushed forward.
This time Isabella did not stop her.
Elena gathered Mia against her chest.
“I want you off this property,” I said.
Isabella laughed.
“No.”
I stared at her.
“You have ten minutes.”
“You should read the rest of your father’s letter first.”
“The rest was torn off.”
“I know.”
She reached into her handbag.
And removed a folded piece of paper.
My blood turned cold.
The torn edge matched.
Exactly.
“How did you get that?”
“Marco.”
The name hit like a blade.
Elena stared at her.
I said nothing.
Isabella unfolded the page.
“You want to know why your father warned you about Elena’s child?”
“Give me the paper.”
“I don’t think you’re ready.”
“Isabella.”
She held it just beyond my reach.
Then she looked at Mia.
“Your father knew something the rest of you didn’t.”
Elena pressed Mia’s face against her shoulder.
“Stop.”
Isabella ignored her.
“He knew Claire had stolen records.
He knew those records would eventually come back.
And he knew Claire had discovered the one secret capable of destroying the Moretti family.”
“What secret?”
Isabella’s eyes returned to mine.
“You.”
I almost laughed.
Instead, I felt cold spread across my chest.
“What about me?”
She handed me the missing page.
I read.
If Claire’s daughter has a child, keep the child away from the Romanos until you confirm the bloodline.
Below that was another sentence.
*Luca must never discover what Sofia did at St.
Matthew’s Hospital on October 11, 1989.*
My birthday.
Tomorrow would be October 11.
Thirty-seven years to the day.
I looked up.
“What happened at St.
Matthew’s?”
Isabella’s smile was almost gentle.
“You were born.”
“I know that.”
“No.”
Her eyes hardened.
“You were brought home.”
The greenhouse seemed to fall silent.
Even Mia stopped crying.
I stared at Isabella.
“What does that mean?”
She stepped toward me.
“It means Antonio Moretti was not your biological father.”
I said nothing.
Couldn’t.
She continued.
“And Sofia Bellandi was not your biological mother.”
The paper trembled between my fingers.
“No.”
Elena whispered my name.
I barely heard her.
Isabella took another step.
“Your parents bought silence from doctors, nurses, administrators.
The Romanos helped arrange it.
Claire found the records years later.”
“You’re lying.”
“I wish I were.”
“Why?”
“That is the interesting question.”
I looked at Elena.
She looked as stunned as I felt.
Then something occurred to me.
“The bloodline.”
Isabella’s eyes flickered.
“My father said to confirm the bloodline.”
“Yes.”
“What does Mia have to do with mine?”
For the first time, Isabella hesitated.
That frightened me more than everything else.
“Elena,” I said.
She shook her head.
“I don’t know.”
Isabella smiled.
“She really doesn’t.”
“Then tell me.”
A phone began ringing.
Not mine.
Not Elena’s.
It came from Mia’s stuffed rabbit.
Everyone looked down.
Elena slowly lowered the toy.
The ringing continued from inside its torn body.
Isabella’s face changed.
“That’s impossible.”
Elena pulled apart the cut seam.
Her fingers searched through the stuffing.
She removed a tiny black phone.
Not a memory card.
A phone.
“I didn’t put this here,” she whispered.
The screen displayed one word.
UNKNOWN.
I took it.
Answered.
“Who is this?”
Silence.
Then breathing.
An older woman’s voice whispered through the speaker.
“Luca?”
Every hair on my arms rose.
“Who is this?”
The woman began crying.
Not loudly.
The soft, broken crying of someone who had waited years for a moment she no longer believed would come.
“Elena is with you?”
I looked at her.
“Yes.”
“And the little girl?”
“Yes.”
The woman exhaled shakily.
“Thank God.”
Elena stepped closer.
Her face had gone completely pale.
“Who is she?”
I put the call on speaker.
“Elena wants to know who you are.”
Silence followed.
Then the voice spoke.
“Elena?”
Elena’s knees almost buckled.
I caught her arm.
The phone trembled in my hand.
“Who are you?”
Elena whispered.
The woman began sobbing.
“My baby.”
Elena stared at the phone.
“No.”
Isabella backed away.
For the first time since I had known her, genuine fear appeared on her face.
The voice continued.
“Elena, listen to me.
You have to take Mia and leave that house.”
Elena could barely breathe.
“Mom?”
Isabella turned toward the greenhouse door.
I caught her wrist.
She stopped.
The voice on the phone became urgent.
“And Luca must come with you.”
“Why?”
I asked.
A pause.
Then Claire Bennett—dead for thirteen years—said the words that shattered everything I thought I knew.
“Because Mia isn’t the child Antonio Moretti was warning you about.”
My grip tightened around the phone.
“What?”
Claire inhaled.
“You are.”
Behind us, somewhere inside the Moretti estate, an alarm began to scream.
Then came the first gunshot.
And Marco Bellini’s voice thundered from the garden.
“LUCA!
GET AWAY FROM THE GIRL!”
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Source: Stories of Destiny · Thao Thao
