Chapter 4 - The Woman in the Photograph
We spent the next forty-eight hours moving between safe houses.
The notebook stayed with me.
Lorenzo refused to let anyone else touch it.
Except me.
It was strange.
The most feared man in New York trusted me with the one thing that could expose his family.
I kept thinking about that.
“Why me?” I asked.
We were sitting in the back of a black SUV.
Snow raced past the windows.
“Because your mother intended you to have it.”
“You don't know that.”
“I do.”
“How?”
He looked at my hands.
“She wrote your name inside.”
I opened the notebook again.
There it was.
Julia.
Underneath my name was another sentence.
When the time comes, she will know whom to trust.
My chest tightened.
“Did she mean you?”
“I don't know.”
“You hope she did.”
His expression softened.
“Yes.”
I looked away.
That was the first time Lorenzo had admitted he wanted something from me.
Not obedience.
Not loyalty.
Trust.
When we reached the safe house, Lorenzo's attorney arrived.
Victor Salazar.
He had worked for the Greco family for over twenty years.
He bowed.
“Mr. Greco.”
Lorenzo handed him the notebook.
“Decode everything.”
Victor looked at me.
“Who's she?”
“My future.”
Victor blinked.
Lorenzo's expression didn't change.
I stared at him.
“You could warn me before saying things like that.”
“I thought you'd be pleased.”
“I don't know if I am.”
His mouth curved slightly.
“You didn't deny it.”
Victor tried very hard not to smile.
Then the notebook was scanned.
The hidden writing revealed a map.
Three locations.
A warehouse in Brooklyn.
A bank vault in Manhattan.
And an abandoned vineyard in upstate New York.
Each was marked with the same black rose.
Victor explained:
“The black rose was a symbol used by an old organization called the Belladonna Circle.”
I frowned.
“That sounds romantic.”
“It wasn't.”
Lorenzo looked at me.
“They specialized in political blackmail.”
“Why were they after my mother?”
“Because she discovered their financial network.”
“And your family?”
“They worked with them.”
He said it simply.
“My father eventually tried to leave.”
“And they killed him?”
“Probably.”
I looked at him.
“Your family is a nightmare.”
“Yes.”
“You say that very calmly.”
“I've had practice.”
The first location was the warehouse.
We found nothing.
The second was the bank.
There, we discovered a sealed safety deposit box.
The contents shocked me.
A wedding photograph.
My mother.
And a man I didn't recognize.
Lorenzo did.
He went pale.
“That's Matteo.”
His uncle.
Alive.
The man everyone believed had died twenty-two years earlier.
I touched the photograph.
“Who's beside him?”
Lorenzo looked closer.
His expression changed.
“Your father.”
I stared.
“My father knew Matteo?”
“They worked together.”
I felt sick.
“My father lied too?”
“Maybe.”
We opened another envelope.
A birth certificate.
My name.
But the father's name was blank.
I stared at it.
“Why is this blank?”
Lorenzo couldn't answer.
Then Victor found something else.
A letter addressed to my father.
If Julia ever learns the truth, tell her she was protected because of who she is.
Not because she is your daughter.
Because she is theirs.
I looked at Lorenzo.
“What does that mean?”
He shook his head.
“I don't know.”
The third clue led us north.
The vineyard had been abandoned for years.
Inside the main house, we found a hidden cellar.
Boxes.
Records.
Cash.
And photographs.
Hundreds of them.
My mother's life.
My father's meetings.
Lorenzo's family.
Then I found one picture that made my heart stop.
It showed my mother holding a newborn baby.
Me.
Beside her stood Lorenzo's mother.
And behind them was a man I had never seen.
The photograph was dated one month after my supposed birth.
But there was something wrong.
My mother was wearing a hospital bracelet.
Saint Verena.
I looked at Lorenzo.
“My mother didn't give birth to me at home.”
“No.”
“She was at Saint Verena.”
“Yes.”
“Then why was my father's name blank?”
Neither of us answered.
I looked at the photograph again.
Something had been written on the back.
Not my name.
A phrase.
The child belongs to the agreement.
My blood ran cold.
“What agreement?”
A voice answered from the doorway.
“The one that kept you alive.”
We turned.
A woman stood there.
Gray hair.
Elegant coat.
Familiar eyes.
I recognized her from the old photograph.
Lorenzo's mother.
Impossible.
But the woman was smiling.
“Hello, Julia.”
Lorenzo's gun dropped from his hand.
“Mom?”
She smiled sadly.
“No, Lorenzo.”
She shook her head.
“My name is Isabella.”
May you like
And that was when we realized the impossible.
Lorenzo's mother had never died.
