Chapter 5 - THE CHILD THEY HID
No one spoke for several seconds.
Then Dante said, “That's impossible.”
Isabella shook her head.
“No.”
“My mother would have told me.”
“She tried.”
“Then why didn't she?”
“Because she was afraid.”
Dante stepped toward her.
“Afraid of whom?”
“Your father.”
The old station seemed suddenly colder.
I sat on a bench because my legs could no longer support me.
“A child,” I whispered.
Isabella nodded.
“Your child.”
Dante stared at me.
I couldn't tell which of us looked more frightened.
“How old would she be?”
“Twenty-two.”
The same age as the mystery surrounding Isabella.
The same age as the photograph.
The same age as the locked box.
Everything seemed connected.
But I couldn't understand how.
“Why did my mother raise me?”
Isabella looked at me.
“She didn't.”
I frowned.
“What?”
“She raised you because she believed you were someone else's child.”
Dante's face hardened.
“Whose?”
Isabella hesitated.
Then answered.
“Your father's.”
I looked at Dante.
He looked sick.
“So I'm not—”
“You are not Dante's daughter,” Isabella said.
Relief came first.
Then confusion.
“Then why did you say—”
“Because your father believed you were.”
She explained that years ago, their father had discovered Dante had secretly fathered a child with a woman named Elena.
Elena disappeared shortly after giving birth.
The baby disappeared with her.
Their father used that disappearance to manipulate Dante.
He claimed the child was dead.
But Isabella later learned the truth.
The baby had been taken to St. Agnes.
My mother found her there.
“She raised me because she thought she was saving a child from the Moretti family.”
“Yes.”
I looked down at my hands.
“Then why did you call me Claire?”
“Because that was the name on the St. Agnes records.”
“And Harper?”
“Your mother gave you that name later.”
Dante sat beside me.
For once, he didn't look like Chicago's most feared man.
He looked like someone who had spent twenty-two years mourning a person who had never died.
“I was told my daughter died,” he said.
I didn't know what to say.
“You believed it.”
“Yes.”
“And you never looked?”
“I did.”
He swallowed.
“For years.”
Isabella nodded.
“Then our father showed you a photograph.”
Dante's expression changed.
“What photograph?”
“A baby.”
He closed his eyes.
“I remember.”
“He told you she was dead.”
Dante's fists tightened.
“He lied.”
“Yes.”
Bell suddenly stepped forward.
“Why now?”
Everyone looked at him.
“Why bring all this back after twenty-two years?”
Isabella looked toward the station entrance.
“Because the people who protected the secret are disappearing.”
“What people?”
“Three witnesses are dead.”
Dante stood.
“Who killed them?”
“I don't know.”
“Then why attack Harper?”
“Because she's the last living link.”
I looked at her.
“Link to what?”
Isabella didn't answer immediately.
Then she reached into her bag.
She removed an old child's drawing.
It showed a house.
A man.
A woman.
And a little girl.
The girl wore a red coat.
On the back was a date.
I recognized the handwriting.
My mother's.
Underneath the drawing were four words:
She knows where it is.
Dante stared.
“Where what is?”
Isabella looked at him.
“The ledger.”
Dante's face hardened.
“What ledger?”
“The one your father kept.”
Bell's expression changed.
“Financial records?”
“Not just financial.”
Isabella explained that their father had kept a handwritten ledger documenting payments, betrayals, hidden accounts, and names of people who had helped build his network.
Politicians.
Businessmen.
Judges.
Police officers.
People who had spent twenty years pretending they had clean hands.
“If that ledger exists,” Bell said, “a lot of people have reason to find it.”
“And reason to find Harper,” Isabella replied.
I shook my head.
“I don't have anything.”
Isabella looked at me.
“You have something.”
“What?”
“Your mother's necklace.”
My hand immediately went to the chain beneath my hospital gown.
I had worn it since childhood.
A small silver pendant.
Nothing special.
Or so I had believed.
I pulled it out.
Dante stared.
“Open it.”
“It doesn't open.”
“Try.”
I pressed the edge.
Nothing.
Dante took it carefully.
His thumb found a tiny seam.
The pendant clicked.
Inside was a miniature photograph.
Dante.
A woman.
And a baby.
On the back was a date.
Twenty-two years earlier.
Dante looked at the picture.
His face broke.
“That woman…”
He stopped.
I whispered.
“Who is she?”
He turned the photograph over.
There was one sentence.
Dante, if you ever find our daughter, tell her I never abandoned her.
Dante's hands began shaking.
“Her name was Elena.”
I looked at him.
“Who was Elena?”
He couldn't answer.
Isabella did.
“Your biological mother.”
The station seemed to tilt.
My entire life had just become a question.
Then Bell's phone rang.
He listened.
His face went pale.
“What happened?”
He looked at Dante.
“Victor Russo is missing.”
Dante stood.
“How long?”
“Three hours.”
May you like
Then Bell added quietly:
“And his house was found burned.”
