Chapter 2 - The Woman Who Had Been Hiding Me for Twenty-Six Years
I did not sleep that night.
Neither did Dante.
At three in the morning, the mansion was silent except for the soft ticking of the grandfather clock in the upstairs hall and the distant hum of traffic beyond the gates.
I sat in Dante's library wearing the same black maid's dress from the engagement party, my shoes abandoned beside the sofa, the old photograph resting in my lap.
My mother had lied to me.
Not about something small.
Not about a forgotten bill or a bad marriage or a mistake from her youth.
She had lied about the identity of my father.
And somehow the Moretti family had been involved from the beginning.
Dante stood by the window with his jacket off and the sleeves of his white shirt rolled to his elbows.
He had made three calls in the last hour.
Each time, he had spoken quietly enough that I could not hear everything.
But I heard one name repeatedly.
Luca.
Finally, he ended the last call and turned around.
"Marco found the priest who ran the church where that photograph was taken. He's eighty-two now and lives in New Jersey."
I looked at him.
"Does he remember my mother?"
"He says he does."
"And Luca?"
Dante's jaw tightened.
"He remembers him too."
I stood.
"Then we're going."
"Not tonight."
"Dante-"
"Elena, it is four in the morning. The priest is elderly. We will go after sunrise."
"I have spent twenty-six years believing a dead man named Daniel Carter was my father. I am not going to sit here and drink tea until breakfast."
For the first time that night, the corner of Dante's mouth almost moved.
"I was going to suggest coffee."
"That isn't funny."
"No. It isn't."
The faint humor vanished.
He crossed the room and sat across from me.
"There is another option."
"What?"
"We ask your mother."
My stomach tightened.
I looked away.
I had called Saint Catherine's twice. Her nurse said she was sleeping after a difficult afternoon of treatment.
Part of me wanted to wake her immediately and demand the truth.
Another part was terrified the truth might break whatever strength she had left.
"She is sick," I whispered.
"Then we go carefully."
"What if she refuses?"
"Then she refuses."
I looked at him.
"You say that as if you wouldn't order the truth out of someone else."
His gaze held mine.
"Your mother is not someone else."
Something about the way he said it made my chest hurt.
I looked down at the photograph.
"Why are you doing this?"
"Because you deserve to know."
"No. I mean all of it. The hospital. The calls. Tonight."
He was silent.
My pulse quickened.
"You ended your engagement. You embarrassed the Bennett family in front of half the city. You have spent hours digging into records from twenty-six years ago. Why?"
He looked toward the fire.
For a man who could terrify rooms full of dangerous people without raising his voice, Dante Moretti suddenly seemed almost uncomfortable.
"You know why."
I swallowed.
"I don't."
His eyes returned to mine.
"Yes, Elena. You do."
The room felt smaller.
I could hear my own breathing.
For months, I had trained myself not to imagine those words.
Not to mistake kindness for affection.
Not to turn late-night coffee into something it wasn't.
Not to think about the way he remembered my mother's appointments or the way his gaze sometimes lingered when I laughed.
He had been engaged to someone else.
I had been his employee.
There had been rules.
Necessary ones.
"Dante..."
He stood abruptly.
"Not tonight."
I stared at him.
"You just-"
"Tonight you found out your entire history may be a lie. I'm not going to use that confusion to tell you things I should have said weeks ago."
He stepped back.
"We find the truth first. Then you decide what you want."
That should have made me feel safer.
Instead, my heart pounded harder.
At six twenty, Saint Catherine's called.
My mother was awake.
By seven, Dante and I were in the back seat of a black sedan heading downtown.
Marco sat in front.
I watched Manhattan pass through the rain-streaked window.
No one spoke.
When we reached the hospital, I turned to Dante.
"I need to go in alone first."
He nodded immediately.
"Of course."
That surprised me.
Maybe it shouldn't have.
My mother's room smelled like antiseptic and lavender lotion.
She looked smaller than she had three days earlier, her silver-streaked hair pulled loosely behind her head, an IV running into the back of her hand.
She smiled when I entered.
"There she is."
My eyes filled instantly.
"Hi, Mom."
I kissed her forehead.
She studied my face.
"You've been crying."
I almost laughed.
"You always know."
"Mothers are annoying that way."
I sat beside her bed.
For a few minutes, I asked about her medication, whether she had eaten, whether the pain had improved.
Then I placed the photograph on her blanket.
Everything changed.
Her hand stopped moving.
The smile disappeared.
She stared at the picture for so long that I heard the heart monitor speed slightly beside her.
"Where did you get this?"
"At the Moretti mansion."
Her eyes snapped to mine.
"Why were you looking through Moretti records?"
"I wasn't. Their security chief found it after Vanessa Bennett canceled your hospital payments."
"Vanessa did what?"
"That's not important right now."
"It is to me."
"Mom."
My voice broke.
"Who is Luca Moretti?"
She closed her eyes.
I knew the answer before she spoke.
Not the details.
But I knew one thing.
She had been waiting for this day.
"Your father," she whispered.
The room went silent around us.
I stared at her.
"My father was Luca Moretti?"
She nodded once.
I stood so quickly that the chair scraped against the floor.
"You told me his name was Daniel Carter."
"Anthony Moretti used that name when he helped me leave New York. I borrowed it because I needed a story people would believe."
"You needed a story?"
"Elena-"
"You lied to me for twenty-six years."
Tears filled her eyes.
"To keep you alive."
My anger stopped.
"What?"
She looked toward the door.
"Is Dante here?"
I hesitated.
"Yes."
"Bring him in."
A minute later, Dante entered with Marco behind him.
My mother went pale when she saw Dante.
Not because she was afraid.
Because she recognized someone else in his face.
"You look like Luca," she said.
Dante stopped beside the bed.
"So I've been told."
My mother gave a bitter little laugh.
"He hated that. Your father was the heir. Luca was the younger brother. Everyone thought Luca should have been grateful for whatever role he was given."
"What happened to him?" I asked.
She stared at the photograph.
"He tried to leave."
Dante's expression hardened.
"Leave the family?"
"Leave the business. Leave New York. Leave all of it."
She looked at me.
"For me."
My throat tightened.
"You loved him?"
"More than I knew how to survive."
Her eyes closed briefly.
"I was twenty-two. I worked in a bookkeeping office in Brooklyn. Luca came in one afternoon because one of the companies he controlled was being audited. He was arrogant and impatient and completely impossible. I hated him for six weeks. Then I loved him for the next two years."
Dante glanced at Marco.
"My father knew?"
"Eventually. Anthony didn't approve, but he wasn't cruel about it. In fact, when I became pregnant, he helped Luca make arrangements for us to disappear."
"Why?"
"Because your grandfather would never have allowed it."
Dante's face tightened at the mention of Vittorio Moretti, the man who had ruled the family before Anthony.
My mother continued.
"Luca planned to take me to Vermont. He had purchased a house under another name. The night before we were supposed to leave, he went to meet Anthony."
Her voice shook.
"He never came back."
I felt cold everywhere.
"Was he killed?"
She looked at Dante.
"I was told he died in a car accident."
Marco spoke for the first time.
"There is no death certificate for Luca Moretti."
My mother stared at him.
"What?"
"No official one. The family records state he died overseas in 2001, but there is no government record matching it."
Dante's eyes sharpened.
"You never told me that."
"I learned it this morning."
My mother's hand started trembling.
"No. Anthony told me Luca was dead. He gave me money. He arranged the account for my medical care and Elena's education. Then he moved me out of the city."
"Why would he do that if Luca was alive?" I asked.
She looked at me with tears running down her face.
"I don't know."
A knock came at the door.
A nurse entered, looking nervous.
"I'm sorry to interrupt, but Mrs. Carter has a visitor downstairs. He says it's urgent."
"Who?" I asked.
The nurse checked the tablet in her hand.
"A Mr. Samuel Cross."
My mother made a sound I had never heard before.
Not surprise.
Fear.
Dante noticed.
"Who is Samuel Cross?"
My mother gripped my hand.
"He was Luca's driver."
Marco was already reaching for his phone.
"He's been dead for fourteen years."
The nurse looked confused.
"Then someone downstairs is using his name."
Dante moved toward the door.
My mother caught his sleeve.
"Don't."
He looked down.
"Why?"
Her voice dropped to a whisper.
"Because Luca used to tell me that if anything ever happened to him, Samuel was the only man I should trust."
Then the hospital lights flickered.
Once.
Twice.
The heart monitor beside my mother went dark for half a second before the backup power kicked in.
Marco's phone rang.
He answered.
His face changed.
"Lock the floor," he ordered. "Now."
Dante stepped closer to me.
"What happened?"
Marco looked at him.
"The man downstairs disappeared."
"Find him."
"We're trying."
Marco hesitated.
"But he left an envelope at the front desk for Elena."
Five minutes later, the envelope was brought upstairs.
My name was written across the front in black ink.
Elena Carter.
Inside was one photograph.
A recent one.
A gray-haired man sat alone on a bench in Central Park.
He had Dante's eyes.
May you like
On the back, three words had been written.
Your father lives.
