Chapter 4 - A WOMAN WHO KNEW THE WAY HOME
Teresa Moretti arrived at the mansion the next morning carrying a tray of homemade almond cookies.
I was sitting in the library with Vivian and Detective Reyes when I saw her through the doorway. She wore a camel-colored coat and pearls, and she kissed Luca's cheek before asking whether the servants could make her tea. It was the same gentle performance she'd given at every family gathering.
“Darling,” she said, “you look terrible. You should rest.”
Luca didn't move to take the tray.
“Where is Isabella?” he asked.
The smile held for a second too long. “You know I don't like it when you torture yourself with—”
“She's alive, Teresa.”
The cookies rattled against the porcelain plate.
Reyes stepped into the hall. “Mrs. Moretti, I would like to speak with you about the infant discharge records from St. Catherine's Hospital.”
Teresa stared at her badge. “I haven't done anything wrong.”
“Then this is your opportunity to give us an accurate account.”
Teresa refused to answer further without her attorney. Reyes didn't argue. She merely asked her to remain available for formal questioning and warned her against interfering with the investigation. Teresa left her cookies on a side table and walked out without touching her tea.
I watched Luca through the library window as his aunt climbed into a silver sedan.
“She looked at you like you were a stranger,” I said.
“Maybe she thinks I am. For six years she's watched me grieve a child she knew was alive.”
He sat in his father's leather armchair and pressed two fingers to his forehead. “Every birthday she brought flowers. Every Christmas she told me Elena would want me to be happy.”
I wanted to say something that would make him feel better. There was nothing honest to say.
An hour later, June Ainsley arrived for a recorded interview. She was a small woman in her sixties with close-cropped gray hair and a canvas bag clutched against her chest. When she saw Luca, her eyes filled with tears.
“I tried,” she said. “I need you to know I tried.”
Reyes made sure everyone understood the interview was being recorded. June explained how a doctor had suddenly changed newborn Isabella's discharge status. The infant, previously recovering well, was listed as deceased on one system. On another, a female infant with no family details appeared under a temporary identification number.
“I challenged it,” June said. “Dr. Mercer told me the family had requested privacy and that I should leave it alone.”
“Did you see a baby leave?” Reyes asked.
“Yes. Mrs. Teresa Moretti carried her through the private elevator with a man I recognized from visiting the family. He signed a visitor sheet as Vincent Hale. But his badge from a previous visit said Vincent Bardi.”
“Why didn't you stop them?” Luca asked. There was pain in the question, not accusation.
“Because the discharge order had the doctor's signature, and I thought your family had consented. Then I saw the death certificate. By the time I realized both records couldn't be true, they'd threatened my nursing license.”
June opened her canvas bag. Inside was a small notebook sealed in a plastic sleeve.
“I wrote down what I saw that night. I made a complaint. The hospital told the investigator I was confused.”
Reyes documented the notebook's history and arranged to collect it properly. I glanced toward Luca. He had covered his mouth with his hand.
“Can you remember the blanket?” he asked.
“Yellow,” June replied. “Little white ducks in one corner.”
Luca closed his eyes. “Elena chose it.”
The room grew quiet. June reached across the table but stopped before touching his hand.
“I'm sorry, Mr. Moretti.”
“Help us tell the truth now,” he said.
By afternoon the case had moved beyond our little circle. Investigators obtained additional hospital records, and child welfare officials continued searching for Bella and Marisol. A family-law attorney named Rachel Chen joined Luca's legal team, along with an independent child advocate who was concerned with Bella's safety rather than anyone's fortune.
Rachel met us in the breakfast room, where the sunlight fell across a table that had once seated twenty people.
“We have to approach this carefully,” she told Luca. “The records indicate you may be Isabella's father. We will seek proper confirmation. But Bella has lived with Marisol for years. There needs to be a safe, child-centered transition, not a dramatic extraction.”
“I don't want to frighten her,” he said.
“Then resist anyone who promises a shortcut.”
He nodded.
Rachel turned toward me. “Olivia, your witness statement may be important in the assault case and the investigation into Vanessa's records. You should have independent advice about your own employment and injury claims.”
“I already have Vivian,” I said.
“Good. Keep her.”
The talk of lawyers and records ended when Marco hurried in, holding a phone.
“Police made contact with Marisol Vega.”
Luca stood.
“Where?”
“She called from a church office near Rockford. She's safe. Bella is with her.”
For a moment, Luca forgot how to speak.
“Can I talk to her?” he whispered.
“Not directly yet. The detective is verifying identities. They want a social worker present. Marisol says she's terrified of Vincent and she won't allow anyone to take Bella without explaining what's happening.”
“She's right,” Rachel said immediately. “The girl needs that protection.”
Luca let out a long, unsteady breath. “Tell them I'll cooperate.”
I stepped into the kitchen to give him a moment. Through the window I could see the gardener gathering fallen leaves beside the fountain. A normal day continued outside while a six-year-old child's life was about to change beyond recognition.
My phone rang. It was my mother.
“Are you eating?” she asked.
I looked at the untouched sandwich Vivian had made me. “Not much.”
“You need food to heal.”
“You sound like my doctor.”
“Your doctor sounds like a sensible person.”
I smiled, then winced at the pull near my stitches. Mom heard it in my voice.
“You don't have to fix this whole family, Olivia.”
“I know.”
“Then remember your own life is part of what matters.”
When I returned to the breakfast room, Luca was still seated at the table. He looked up.
“They may let me see her tomorrow,” he said. “In a supervised place. They need to explain who I am.”
“Are you scared?”
“More than I have ever been.”
“What will you say?”
“I don't know.” He managed a faint smile. “I think I can negotiate a hundred-million-dollar contract without notes, but I can't figure out how to say hello to my daughter.”
“You start by asking if she's comfortable. Then you listen.”
He studied me. “That's what Elena would have said.”
“Then she knew something useful.”
That evening, Reyes called with a warning. Marisol had given a preliminary statement. She had been told Isabella's father died before she was born and that her mother had left written consent for a private guardianship. She never received a genuine adoption decree, only letters from a law office arranging living expenses.
“She didn't know who Luca was?” I asked.
“Not until someone showed her a photograph eight months ago,” Reyes said. “And that person was Vanessa.”
Luca gripped the back of a chair. “Vanessa told her?”
“Yes. Vanessa said a dangerous man might come claiming Bella. She offered to obtain a court order that would keep the child away from him.”
“From me,” he said.
Reyes continued. “Marisol says she began questioning that story when Vanessa demanded she sign the child over. Marisol contacted legal aid, and Vincent started threatening her.”
“Will Bella be safe tonight?” Luca asked.
“She's with Marisol and trained child-protection staff in a secure location. We aren't disclosing it, even to you, until the threat is assessed.”
Luca looked wounded by the boundary. Then he nodded. “All right.”
I thought of how much had been stolen from him. Still, I was grateful he hadn't asked anyone to bend that rule.
While Luca spoke with his attorney, I found Marco standing alone in the pantry. He was staring at an old staff photograph pinned above the calendar. It showed Vincent laughing with a much younger Luca at a summer picnic.
“Did you know?” I asked.
Marco shook his head so sharply that I believed him. “Vincent hired me. He taught me where to stand at the front gate and which roads to check before a family trip. I thought he was the safest man in this house.”
“Maybe that was why he was dangerous.”
Marco put the photograph facedown. “A person can wear trust like a uniform.”
I looked at my bandaged collarbone and remembered how Vanessa's title had protected her. A fiancée was considered family; a maid was considered replaceable. Neither assumption had anything to do with what we were willing to do for a child.
“Will you tell the detective everything?” I asked.
“Yes. Including the times I let Vincent send away guards without asking why.” He swallowed. “I cannot undo those mistakes. But I can stop calling them loyalty.”
The quiet conviction in his voice reminded me that Luca was not the only person being asked to choose a different kind of courage. Around us, the mansion was full of people trying to decide whether telling the truth would cost them the lives they'd built.
Just before bedtime, Rachel called again. The child's advocate had received permission to share a message Bella had offered for the man they were telling her might be her father.
It wasn't a letter about money or blood or the name Moretti.
It was a question written in large uneven pencil letters:
DOES HE KNOW HOW TO MAKE PANCAKES SHAPED LIKE STARS?
May you like
Luca stared at the screen for a long time.
Then he looked toward the empty kitchen and said, with absolute seriousness, “Somebody find me a frying pan.”
