Chapter 2 - MY FATHER’S LETTER DIDN’T TELL ISABELLA TO HIDE LILY FOREVER
The envelope felt heavier than paper should.
My father had been dead for six years.
Yet I knew his handwriting immediately.
Giuseppe Moretti wrote like he did everything else.
Hard.
Slanted forward.
Every letter appearing impatient with the one before it.
I had seen that handwriting on birthday cards.
Death notices.
Shipping orders.
Payoff ledgers.
And one final note left on my desk after his heart stopped in a Naples hospital:
Do not let sentiment make you weak.
Now his handwriting was on an envelope a woman had kept hidden for almost seven years.
Lily stood beside Isabella.
Still clutching the scholarship letter that had brought them to Central Park.
Still staring at me with the same gray-green eyes I had spent my entire life seeing in mirrors.
“Mom?”
Isabella looked down.
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“Is Alessandro really my dad?”
My chest tightened.
Isabella glanced at me.
I did not answer for her.
That mattered.
She knelt.
“I believe he is.”
Lily frowned.
“You said Evan was my dad.”
There it was.
The man who had disappointed her that afternoon.
The man who “always said he’d come.”
I looked at Isabella.
Not accusing.
Not yet.
She understood.
“Evan was the man who helped me raise you.”
She told Lily carefully.
“You started calling him Dad when you were little.”
“Because everybody else at preschool had one.”
Lily’s face crumpled.
“He said I could.”
“I know.”
“Was he lying?”
“No.”
Isabella touched her daughter’s cheek.
“He loved you.”
“He just wasn’t the man whose body helped make you.”
Children accept strange truths differently from adults.
Lily looked at me again.
“So you’re maybe the body dad?”
Despite everything, I almost laughed.
“That is one way to say it.”
“Do you know?”
“No.”
“Can doctors know?”
“Yes.”
She nodded as if this were a school problem.
“Okay.”
Then:
“Can we find out?”
My throat tightened.
“Yes.”
“If your mother agrees.”
Isabella stared at me.
The old Alessandro would have ordered a car.
A lab.
A test.
No question.
But if this little girl was mine, I had already lost six years because adults made decisions around her.
I would not begin the seventh by treating her like evidence.
Isabella nodded.
“We can.”
Good.
Then I looked at the envelope.
“Can I read it?”
Isabella hesitated.
Then handed it to me.
Inside were four pages.
The first had been written seven months after the night I nearly died.
My father addressed Isabella by name.
That alone meant he had found her.
He wrote:
Miss Romano, you do not know me personally, but you know my son. I know what occurred after the shooting. I also know you are pregnant.
I stopped.
My jaw hardened.
My father had known before I did.
I continued.
Alessandro is alive, but his position is unstable. Three separate factions are attempting to remove him. Two have already asked questions about the woman who sheltered him.
Isabella whispered:
“That part was true.”
I looked up.
“How do you know?”
“Men came to the hotel.”
“The morning after you left.”
“One showed your picture.”
“Another showed mine.”
“They asked if I had treated your injuries.”
“I denied everything.”
“Then my manager fired me because he was afraid.”
My grip tightened on the page.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t know where you were.”
“You could have gone to police.”
She gave me a sad look.
“You were Alessandro Moretti.”
Fair.
I returned to the letter.
You may believe my son can protect you.
At present, he cannot reliably protect himself.
That line hurt more than I expected.
Because it had been true.
When I took over the organization after my father’s illness, men smiled across dinner tables and hired shooters before dessert.
I survived because I trusted nobody.
Then my father wrote something worse:
If the child is Alessandro’s, the child becomes leverage the moment the wrong person knows.
For now, disappear.
I looked at Isabella.
“You followed this.”
“Yes.”
“He gave you money?”
“Enough for three months.”
“Only three?”
“I didn’t want more.”
Of course.
The woman who saved me had never once asked for money.
Then another line:
When the New York conflict is resolved, contact Giovanni Rinaldi through the number below. He will arrange a safe meeting with Alessandro.
I stopped breathing.
Giovanni Rinaldi.
My father’s oldest attorney.
My godfather.
The man who sat at my right hand during my father’s funeral.
The man who had advised me through every federal investigation of the last decade.
The man who was supposed to meet me at my Long Island estate in three hours to discuss tomorrow’s canceled wedding.
I read the line again.
Giovanni will arrange a safe meeting.
I looked at Isabella.
“Did you call?”
“Fourteen months later.”
“What happened?”
“A woman answered.”
“She said Giovanni was traveling.”
“I left my number.”
“No one called.”
“Again?”
“Three weeks later.”
“What happened?”
“A man told me never to contact the number again.”
My blood went cold.
“Did you tell him why?”
“I said I had information about Alessandro Moretti’s child.”
There.
No ambiguity.
Someone at Giovanni’s office had heard.
“Then?”
“Two nights later, someone broke into my apartment.”
“Anything stolen?”
“No.”
“What moved?”
“Lily’s crib.”
My breathing slowed.
“They didn’t take anything.”
“They put one of your newspaper photographs inside her crib.”
My entire body went still.
Threat.
Not subtle.
“Why didn’t you go to another person inside my organization?”
“Who?”
She asked.
That single word embarrassed me.
Because Isabella had been twenty-three.
Alone.
Pregnant.
Working housekeeping jobs under shortened names.
And every man around me had looked dangerous from the outside.
Some were.
I continued reading.
The second page was written by my father four months later.
The immediate conflict has not ended.
Do not contact Alessandro directly yet.
Then:
I have created an independent trust for the child if paternity is ever established.
My pulse changed.
Trust.
Money.
There was always money.
The document referenced a separate instrument.
Moretti Descendant Trust.
Administered by—
Giovanni Rinaldi.
Of course.
My father wrote:
The trust is not intended to purchase the child’s loyalty.
It exists so no one can use money to force the mother into my family’s control.
That line surprised me.
My father had been many things.
Compassionate was not usually one.
Then the last paragraph:
I made Alessandro into the man I believed the family required.
I am no longer certain I made him into the man a child requires.
I stopped reading.
My vision blurred for one second.
Lily kicked one sneaker lightly against the dirt.
Unaware my dead father had just reached through six years and struck me harder than any enemy ever had.
I continued.
If my son learns restraint, tell him.
If he does not, protect the child from us.
Silence.
Central Park continued around us.
Joggers.
Dogs.
Children.
A bicycle bell.
I folded the page slowly.
Isabella said:
“He wasn’t trying to punish you.”
“I know.”
That somehow made it worse.
“He was afraid of me.”
“He was afraid of the world around you.”
“And me.”
She did not answer.
Good.
No unnecessary comfort.
“What are the other pages?”
“The last one arrived after he died.”
My head snapped up.
“What?”
“Same stationery.”
“Same signature.”
“But?”
“I didn’t know he was already dead when I received it.”
My blood chilled.
She handed me the third page.
The date was eight days after my father’s funeral.
Impossible.
The handwriting looked almost perfect.
Almost.
But the G in Giuseppe was too narrow.
I had signed thousands of documents beside my father.
This was imitation.
The letter said:
Do not contact Alessandro.
The danger has increased.
The child must remain outside the Moretti family permanently.
Then:
Any attempt to approach my son will place both you and the girl at risk.
I stared.
Forgery.
Someone used my dead father’s name to keep my daughter hidden.
“Who delivered this?”
“Courier.”
“Envelope?”
She pulled out the original.
No postage.
Private legal messenger stamp.
Rinaldi & Cross.
Giovanni’s firm.
My pulse slowed.
There it was.
Not proof Giovanni wrote it.
Proof it moved through his office.
The fourth page was not a letter.
It was a receipt.
A trust distribution.
Every year, five thousand dollars had been deposited into an education account under Lily Romano’s name.
Isabella said:
“I never touched it.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t know where it came from until two years ago.”
“How?”
“The bank sent a disclosure.”
“Rinaldi Foundation.”
My gaze dropped to the scholarship letter Lily held.
“What school scholarship is that?”
Lily immediately became excited again.
“St. Catherine’s.”
“Can I see?”
She handed it over.
Gold seal.
St. Catherine’s Academy Opportunity Program.
Sponsor listed:
Rinaldi Educational Foundation.
My chest turned cold.
Giovanni had not merely known Lily existed.
He—or someone controlling his foundation—had been watching her closely enough to fund her education.
Isabella saw my face.
“What?”
I turned the letter so she could see.
Her color disappeared.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t know.”
“I believe you.”
Lily looked between us.
“Is scholarship bad?”
I crouched.
“No.”
“Then why are you making the scary face?”
Children are brutally efficient.
“The scholarship is good.”
“I’m trying to understand who helped choose you.”
“Because I’m smart?”
A tiny defensive note.
I hated that my suspicion touched her pride.
“Yes.”
I said immediately.
“You earned it.”
“No one gets to take that away.”
Her shoulders relaxed.
Good.
Then my phone vibrated.
Marco.
My head of security.
The man I had almost called when I first wanted to leave the park.
I answered.
“Boss, you missed the Bellini meeting.”
“I know.”
“Giovanni is asking where you are.”
There.
My eyes remained on Isabella.
“What did you tell him?”
“That you needed air.”
Marco paused.
“Everything okay?”
No.
Maybe.
Nothing would ever be exactly okay again.
“Move the meeting.”
“With Giovanni?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
I looked at Lily.
Then at the forged letter.
“My house.”
“What time?”
“Tonight.”
Another pause.
“You want extra security?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“All internal surveillance recorded off-site.”
“Why?”
Marco’s voice sharpened.
He knew me.
“Boss?”
I answered quietly.
“Because I’m about to ask my godfather why he has been hiding my daughter from me for six years.”
Marco said nothing.
Then:
“I’m on my way.”
I ended the call.
Lily stared.
“Your godfather is a bad guy?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“You don’t know if somebody is bad?”
“No.”
She considered that.
Then:
“Grown-ups are complicated.”
I almost laughed.
“Yes.”
“Very.”
She held up both arms again.
“Do you need another hug?”
My throat closed.
Isabella turned away, crying.
I looked at the little girl who might be my daughter.
The child my father had known.
The child Giovanni had apparently watched.
The child whose scholarship had unknowingly delivered her back into my path on the exact morning my wedding collapsed.
Coincidence?
Maybe.
I no longer believed in it easily.
I opened my arms.
Lily hugged me.
And over her shoulder, I looked at Isabella.
“DNA first.”
I said.
“Then Giovanni.”
She nodded.
“No men with guns around Lily.”
The request came immediately.
I thought of my life.
My house.
My security.
My habits.
Then looked at the child in my arms.
“Agreed.”
I did not yet know how to become a father.
May you like
But I already knew the first thing I could stop being.
A man who expected everyone else to live comfortably inside his danger.
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