Chapter 5 - THE WOMAN I CALLED FAMILY
“No.”
The word came out before I could think.
Mira had held my hair when morning sickness became so violent I couldn’t stand.
She drove me to prenatal appointments.
She slept in an ugly chair outside the delivery room because she said nobody should give birth alone.
She taught Paulina how to ride a bicycle.
She kept spare pajamas in her apartment.
She was family.
“You’re wrong.”
Luca didn’t argue.
That made it worse.
“I wish I were.”
Roman looked toward the windows.
“Where is Paulina?”
“With Mira.”
Every man in the room went still.
My heart stopped.
I was already reaching for my coat when Roman caught my arm.
“No.”
“Get off me.”
“We go together.”
“She has my daughter.”
“Our daughter.”
The words came sharp.
I turned on him.
“You have been her father for approximately three hours.”
Pain crossed his face.
I regretted it immediately.
Not enough to apologize.
Luca stood.
“Mira isn’t going to hurt Paulina.”
“You just told me she reported my pregnancy to a woman who manipulated Roman into leaving me.”
“Yes.”
“Then forgive me if I don’t find that comforting.”
We left Bellini House in Roman’s car.
No convoy.
No sirens.
Just Roman driving too fast through snow-covered streets while Luca sat in the back and I stared at Christmas lights blurring beyond the windows.
“Tell me everything about Mira.”
Luca spoke quietly.
“Her full name is Miranda Costa.”
“I know.”
“No. You know Miranda Hale.”
My stomach turned.
Hale was the last name Mira had used for twelve years.
“Costa means?”
Roman answered.
“Her father worked for mine.”
“What kind of work?”
“Financial.”
Luca gave a humorless laugh.
“That’s one word.”
“Luca.”
“Her father laundered money.”
I closed my eyes.
“Did she?”
“No.”
At least that answer came quickly.
“She was twenty when he was killed.”
“Killed by whom?”
“Matteo’s people.”
Another layer.
Another reason.
“Why?”
“He found missing money.”
Roman’s hands tightened on the steering wheel.
“What missing money?”
“The same accounts Mother discovered.”
Roman glanced into the rearview mirror.
“You never told me.”
“I was busy pretending to be dead.”
Even I almost laughed.
Almost.
Luca continued.
“Mira blamed the Bellinis for her father’s death.”
I looked out the window.
“She became my friend because of Roman.”
“Yes.”
The betrayal settled deep.
Then Luca added, “At first.”
I turned.
“What does that mean?”
“She was supposed to watch you.”
“For Isabella?”
“Yes.”
“And report back.”
“Yes.”
My throat tightened.
“Did she?”
“For the first year.”
“And after?”
Luca looked toward the dashboard.
“She stopped.”
“How do you know?”
“Because Isabella complained.”
That surprised me.
“Mira cut contact?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I think she started loving you.”
That hurt more than if he had told me everything was fake.
Love complicated betrayal.
We reached my building.
I was out of the car before Roman stopped.
Mira’s apartment door stood open.
I rushed inside.
“Paulina!”
“She’s here.”
Mira appeared from the kitchen.
Paulina sat at the table decorating sugar cookies.
She looked up.
“Mama?”
My knees nearly gave out.
She was safe.
Roman stopped in the doorway.
Paulina saw him.
The frosting bag in her hand went still.
Neither spoke.
For a few seconds, father and daughter simply stared at each other.
Same eyes.
Same stubborn mouth.
Roman looked terrified.
Paulina looked curious.
Then she said, “You’re taller close up.”
Luca coughed into his fist.
Roman almost smiled.
“Yes.”
Paulina studied the scar on his jaw.
“Mama said you’re complicated.”
I closed my eyes.
Roman looked at me.
Then back at her.
“That’s fair.”
“Are you my dad?”
“Yes.”
He didn’t step closer.
Didn’t touch her.
Didn’t claim anything.
“I am.”
Paulina looked down at her cookie.
“Okay.”
That was apparently all a nine-year-old could handle in one moment.
Mira’s face had gone pale.
She looked at Luca.
“You.”
“Merry Christmas, Miranda.”
Her expression hardened.
“What did you tell them?”
“Enough.”
I stepped between them.
“Did you spy on me for Isabella?”
Mira closed her eyes.
There it was.
“Yes.”
The word broke something.
Paulina looked up.
“What does spy mean?”
I forced my voice steady.
“Sweetheart, take your cookies upstairs to our apartment.”
“But—”
“Please.”
She looked at Roman.
Then at me.
“Can he come later?”
Roman’s expression nearly destroyed me.
“If you want.”
Paulina nodded and gathered her plate.
Before leaving, she stopped beside Roman.
“Do you like sprinkles?”
“I’ve never trusted them.”
She stared.
“They’re sugar.”
“So I’ve been told.”
A tiny smile appeared.
“Then you’re weird.”
She left.
The moment the stairs creaked above us, I turned on Mira.
“How long?”
“One year.”
“You were at every doctor visit.”
“Yes.”
“You knew Roman’s mother?”
“Yes.”
“You told her I was pregnant?”
Mira’s eyes filled.
“Yes.”
I slapped her.
The sound cracked through the apartment.
She didn’t move.
“I deserved that.”
“Don’t decide what you deserve.”
“No.”
Her voice trembled.
“You’re right.”
Roman watched quietly.
This was mine.
“What did Isabella want?”
“To make sure you were safe.”
“By hiding my daughter from her father?”
“She wanted to tell him.”
Roman stepped forward.
“What?”
Mira nodded.
“After Paulina was born.”
I stared.
“Why didn’t she?”
“Because Matteo found out.”
“How?”
Mira looked at Roman.
“Someone inside your organization intercepted a photograph.”
“What photograph?”
Mira crossed to a kitchen drawer and removed an envelope.
My hands went cold.
Inside was a hospital photograph.
Me exhausted in bed.
Newborn Paulina against my chest.
On the back, Isabella had written:
Roman must know. This ends now.
Roman touched the photograph with one finger.
His face crumpled for half a second.
Mira whispered, “I was supposed to deliver that to him.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because two men came to my apartment.”
Her eyes went distant.
“They showed me pictures of you grocery shopping with Paulina.”
My anger faltered.
“They said if Roman ever learned about the baby, both of you would disappear.”
Roman’s jaw tightened.
“Matteo.”
“I thought so.”
“Thought?”
Mira looked at Luca.
“Until I saw one of the men again.”
“When?”
“Tonight.”
The room went still.
“Where?”
“At church.”
My stomach tightened.
“Who was he?”
Mira’s eyes moved toward Roman.
“The man standing behind Father Matteo during the Christmas service.”
Roman frowned.
“There was nobody behind him.”
“Yes, there was.”
Mira reached for her phone, opened a photograph she had taken from the back pew, and enlarged it.
Father Matteo stood near the altar.
Behind him, half hidden in shadow, was a gray-haired man in a dark coat.
Roman went pale.
Luca whispered, “Impossible.”
I looked between them.
“Who is he?”
Roman’s voice dropped.
“My father.”
I stared.
“Your father died twenty-three years ago.”
Roman looked at the photograph again.
Then at Luca.
“No.”
Luca’s face had gone white.
May you like
“We buried someone twenty-three years ago.”
And suddenly Isabella Bellini was no longer the first person in Roman’s family to have a funeral without a body anyone could truly identify.
