Chapter 4 - MATTEO LEFT A VIDEO FOR THE WOMAN HE NEVER GOT TO COME HOME TO
Carlo Rossi did not know we suspected him.
That was Lorenzo’s decision.
For once, I agreed.
If Noah was alive and Carlo had any connection to where he was being kept, confronting him too early could make a child disappear permanently.
My child.
The thought still felt dangerous to think.
Lorenzo moved Carlo’s access quietly.
Not removed.
Mirrored.
Every login copied to an independent forensic server.
Every company transfer flagged.
Every security credential duplicated.
Marco DeSantis brought in a new cyber team that reported only to outside counsel.
Carlo continued attending board calls, estate briefings, and Leo’s medical updates.
He called Lorenzo twice a day.
“What are the doctors saying?”
“Improving.”
“Miracle.”
“No.”
Lorenzo looked at me while speaking.
“Better controls.”
Carlo laughed.
“Whatever works.”
I hated his voice without ever having met him.
The deeper investigation into Sterling Domestic explained how I landed at Rossi estate.
Four months earlier, the agency suddenly waived its usual two-year household-experience requirement and reassigned me from a hotel job to a private Gold Coast property.
At the time I thought I got lucky.
Pay was triple.
Housing stipend.
Health insurance.
I had been pregnant but barely showing beneath loose clothes.
The agency never asked.
Now we learned my placement approval came from executive account code belonging to Carlo Rossi.
“Why?” I asked.
Lorenzo sat across from me in the nursery sitting room.
Leo had gained four ounces in four days.
Four ounces.
People with billions were celebrating ounces.
“Maybe Matteo told him more than he told me.”
“Would he?”
“No.”
“Maybe Carlo followed him.”
“Yes.”
“Maybe he knew about me before Matt died.”
Lorenzo’s jaw tightened.
“Likely.”
Then Marco brought the encrypted drive.
It came from Matteo’s old safe-deposit box.
After death, Lorenzo had left some personal items untouched because Matteo’s instructions explicitly said his private life should remain private.
Now, with possible child missing, the attorney obtained court authorization from estate administrator to open.
Inside:
A passport under Matthew Rose.
Photographs of me.
I froze.
Not secret photographs.
Normal.
Me holding coffee.
Me asleep on Matt’s sofa.
My hand on my pregnant stomach.
One selfie of us laughing in the snow.
Lorenzo looked away.
There was also a small wooden train.
I recognized it.
“Matt made that.”
“For Noah?”
“He started after ultrasound.”
My throat closed.
The final item was encrypted drive.
Password hint:
HUNTER KNOWS.
I stared.
“I don’t.”
“Think.”
Lorenzo’s attorney asked:
“Favorite place? Date?”
I shook head.
Then remembered.
Matt teased me because I hated my own first name.
“People think I’m a guy on applications.”
He said he liked it.
He called me Artemis once.
Hunter.
Greek goddess.
“What did he call you privately?” Lorenzo asked.
“Moon Girl.”
The attorney entered.
No.
Then:
Artemis.
Drive opened.
I sobbed before any file played.
Matt’s face appeared.
Alive.
Not Matteo Rossi.
Matt.
My Matt.
He sat in his little workshop wearing a flannel shirt covered in sawdust.
“Hunter.”
His voice broke me.
“If you’re watching this, I either got brave or something went very wrong.”
I covered mouth.
Lorenzo stood several feet behind.
Matt continued.
“My name is Matteo Antonio Rossi.”
I closed eyes.
“I know I should have told you.”
Another.
“I also know saying I lied because I loved you is the kind of garbage men say when they want forgiveness before accountability.”
Despite tears, I almost laughed.
That was him.
“I left my family because I was tired of being told blood made every bad thing necessary.”
He looked down.
“My brother Lorenzo is not a good man by normal standards.”
Lorenzo’s face twitched.
“But he is better than people think and worse than he thinks.”
I laughed through sob.
Matt smiled on screen.
“If he’s watching, he’s angry.”
Lorenzo muttered:
“He’s dead and still annoying.”
Then Matt became serious.
“Carlo is dangerous.”
The room changed.
“Our uncle has been diverting money from Rossi Holdings through medical transport, security contractors, and private care companies.”
My eyes moved to Lorenzo.
He looked stunned.
Matt continued.
“I found it because one of his shells tried to buy the restoration warehouse where I work.”
Another.
“Carlo thinks legitimate Rossi assets should return to him if Lorenzo dies without stable succession.”
Lorenzo’s face hardened.
“He doesn’t know about Hunter.”
Matt paused.
“At least I hope he doesn’t.”
My stomach turned.
“If he learns she’s pregnant, her baby becomes part of succession structure because of my shares.”
There.
Four hundred million.
Voting rights.
“Hunter does not care about that money.”
Correct.
“She thinks a five-hundred-dollar crib is excessive.”
I laughed.
“She is wrong.”
Tears.
“But if something happens to me, I want everything legally owed to Noah protected in an independent trust. Not Carlo. Not Lorenzo. Not the Rossi family office.”
Lorenzo nodded once.
Matt continued:
“And if Hunter wants nothing to do with any of us, let her go.”
That sentence shattered me.
“Do not turn protection into ownership.”
Lorenzo looked away.
Then:
“Lorenzo, if you are watching this, Sophia is helping me.”
The room froze.
Sophia.
Lorenzo’s dead wife.
Matt continued.
“She found transfers from Rossi Foundation hospital grants into Carlo’s shells.”
Lorenzo sat.
“She wanted to tell you herself.”
His face changed.
“When?”
“After she confirmed.”
Matt looked toward workshop door, then back.
“We have evidence hidden separately. If both of us are dead, assume Carlo moved first.”
Lorenzo’s breathing stopped.
The video had been recorded eight months earlier.
One month before Matteo’s death.
Seven months before Sophia died in the Queensboro bombing.
Matt continued.
“There is one more thing.”
His voice softened.
“Hunter, I love you.”
I could not see screen through tears.
“I wanted to marry you.”
My breath broke.
“I had a ring.”
I started sobbing.
“Not because of baby.”
Another.
“Because you yell at documentaries when facts are wrong.”
I laughed.
“You put hot sauce on everything.”
Another.
“You sing when you think nobody hears.”
Another.
“And because when I told you my family was complicated, you said every family is complicated and then made me wash dishes.”
I pressed both hands over face.
“I’m sorry I didn’t give you truth soon enough.”
He looked directly at camera.
“If Noah is born and I’m gone, tell him his father wanted him before he existed.”
Then video ended.
No dramatic music.
Just black screen.
I stayed there.
Lorenzo did not touch me.
Ten minutes passed before I could breathe normally.
Finally I whispered:
“Sophia knew.”
“Yes.”
“About Carlo.”
“Yes.”
“And then she died.”
Lorenzo’s voice became hollow.
“Yes.”
He stood and walked to window.
I realized something.
For eight weeks, everyone spoke about Sophia as Lorenzo’s pregnant wife killed by enemies.
He had never once called her a strategic loss.
Only wife.
His hand pressed to glass.
“I put her in that convoy.”
“Lorenzo.”
“I changed route that morning.”
“You didn’t plant bomb.”
“I chose vehicle.”
“That is not same.”
He looked at me.
“You don’t know my world.”
“No.”
“Then don’t absolve.”
I understood.
He did not want cheap forgiveness.
Good.
“What do we do with video?”
“Copy to federal counsel.”
“You involve federal government?”
“I already have.”
That surprised me.
“Aren’t you…”
“A criminal?”
He almost smiled.
“Yes.”
“Some parts of my life do not enjoy federal attention.”
“Then?”
“My son was intentionally starved. My brother may have been murdered. Your child may have been stolen. Sophia may have died because she found evidence.”
His voice hardened.
“I would burn every illegal dollar I own before I let Carlo hide behind my fear of prosecutors.”
That was the first time I saw a future Lorenzo could become.
Not good.
Not yet.
But willing to lose power for truth.
Then Marco entered.
“We traced one of Matteo’s hidden evidence accounts.”
Lorenzo turned.
“Where?”
“Northstar Pediatric Transport.”
My blood chilled.
The same name appeared in Carlo’s shell network.
“They operated a private ambulance from St. Jude on September twenty-third.”
I stood so fast chair fell.
“Where did it go?”
Marco’s face tightened.
“Connecticut.”
“Where?”
“A private neonatal facility outside New Canaan.”
I stopped breathing.
“What facility?”
“Cedar House Pediatric Recovery.”
“Do they have Noah?”
“We don’t know.”
I grabbed my coat.
Lorenzo immediately:
“You’re not going tonight.”
I spun.
“What?”
He stopped.
Wrong.
“I recommend we do not approach before law enforcement verifies.”
“Why?”
“If Carlo controls facility, showing up could move child.”
“If he’s there—”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.”
My voice cracked.
“You didn’t bury him.”
Lorenzo absorbed.
“You’re right.”
That mattered.
He continued:
“If you choose to go, I won’t physically stop you.”
Good.
“But I will go with police, not armed Rossi men.”
I stared.
“How long?”
“Hours.”
“Not days.”
“No.”
“Hours.”
“Yes.”
I sat back down because my legs could no longer hold me.
Lorenzo crouched several feet away.
“Hunter.”
“What?”
“If Noah is there, you decide what happens next.”
I looked.
“Not Rossi trust?”
“No.”
“Not you?”
“No.”
“Not your family?”
“No.”
“Me.”
“You.”
May you like
For first time since hearing my son might be alive, I let myself believe there could be a next.
And hope hurt more than grief had ever warned me it would.
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