Chapter 2 - THE FILE THAT SHOULD HAVE BEEN BURIEDAleandro ordered the iron gates of Greystone closed before Elena could leave the dining room.
He did not imprison her.
He made that distinction clear.
“You may leave whenever you want,” he said. “But until I know who stole Isabella’s file, leaving this property with Sophie may put both of you in danger.”
Elena stared through the tall windows toward the front drive.
Two guards were already checking vehicles.
“You expect me to believe you’re worried about us?”
“I expect you to believe someone broke into a locked archive the same morning I saw your daughter’s birthmark.”
“That could be coincidence.”
Aleandro’s eyes hardened.
“You don’t believe that.”
Neither did she.
Marco took over the security investigation while Aleandro brought Elena to his private study.
Sophie remained with Teresa, the elderly cook whom every child instinctively trusted.
Elena resisted at first, but Sophie had barely slept the night before and soon curled up on Teresa’s sofa beneath a knitted blanket.
Now Elena sat opposite Aleandro.
Between them rested Isabella’s framed photograph.
Aleandro almost never displayed photographs of his daughter outside his bedroom.
That morning, he deliberately placed one on his desk.
Isabella had been seven in the picture.
Dark curls.
Hazel-green eyes.
A crooked smile.
Elena stared at the photograph for too long.
Aleandro noticed.
“You’ve seen her before.”
“No.”
“Elena.”
“I’ve seen photographs.”
“Where?”
She looked away.
Aleandro leaned back.
He had interrogated smugglers, dishonest accountants, and men who had attempted to kill him.
Elena Bennett was different.
Her fear wasn’t centered on herself.
Every lie she told seemed designed to protect Sophie.
So Aleandro changed tactics.
“Tell me about Rose.”
Elena remained silent.
“Is she Sophie’s grandmother?”
“No.”
“Relative?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
Elena stared at the photograph again.
“She was a nurse.”
The answer hit him strangely.
“Where?”
“St. Catherine’s.”
Aleandro stood so quickly his chair scraped the floor.
St. Catherine’s Medical Center had been where Isabella died.
His daughter had been taken there after the car accident.
Aleandro had spent seven hours outside surgery praying to a God he had not spoken to since childhood.
At 3:17 in the morning, the surgeon walked out.
Aleandro had known before the man opened his mouth.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Moretti.”
Those words had divided his life into before and after.
Elena watched him carefully.
“You knew that would mean something to me,” Aleandro said.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because Rose worked the pediatric trauma floor the night your daughter died.”
The air left Aleandro’s lungs.
“Continue.”
Elena folded her hands.
“Two years ago, I was living in Yonkers. Sophie was one. I had no family and almost no money. I was working nights at a laundromat.”
Aleandro remained standing.
“One evening an older woman came in just before closing. Rose Donnelly. She was sick. Cancer. She started coming several nights each week because she couldn’t sleep.”
“And?”
“We became friends.”
“What does that have to do with Isabella?”
Elena’s voice lowered.
“One night she saw Sophie.”
Aleandro already knew what came next.
“The mark.”
Elena nodded.
“Rose nearly fainted.”
Aleandro’s fingers tightened against the desk.
“She asked where Sophie was born. She asked about her father. She asked whether anyone had ever tested the mark.”
“Her father.”
Aleandro focused on the word.
“Who is Sophie’s father?”
Elena’s expression shut down.
“That has nothing to do with this.”
“It may have everything to do with it.”
“No.”
“Then give me his name.”
“I can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Both.”
Aleandro stared at her.
Elena rose.
“I never came here to hurt you.”
“You came to the home of the man whose dead daughter apparently shares a rare birthmark with your child.”
“I came because Rose asked me to.”
That stopped him.
“Why?”
“Before she died, she gave me an envelope.”
“Where is it?”
Elena hesitated.
Aleandro’s patience nearly broke.
“Where?”
“In a safe-deposit box.”
“What’s inside?”
“I don’t know.”
“You never opened it?”
“Rose made me promise not to unless something specific happened.”
Aleandro stared at her.
“What?”
Elena swallowed.
“She said if anyone from the Moretti family ever noticed Sophie’s mark, I had to open the envelope immediately.”
Aleandro felt ice crawl along his spine.
Before he could respond, Marco entered without knocking.
“We found how they accessed the archive.”
Aleandro turned.
“Who?”
“That’s the problem.”
Marco placed a security photograph on the desk.
It showed a man in maintenance coveralls passing through a service corridor at 2:13 a.m.
His face was partly hidden beneath a cap.
“Facial recognition?”
“Nothing yet.”
“What did he take besides Isabella’s medical file?”
“Nothing.”
“Cameras?”
“Disabled for nine minutes.”
“Professional.”
“Very.”
Marco looked at Elena.
“And there’s more.”
Aleandro waited.
“The intruder knew the archive code.”
Only six people knew that code.
Aleandro.
Marco.
Vincent Caruso.
The head of security, Dominic Russo.
Aleandro’s aunt Bianca.
And one other person.
A person who had supposedly been dead for four years.
Aleandro stared at Marco.
“You’re thinking the same thing I am.”
Marco nodded.
“The old code belonged to Dr. Samuel Vale.”
Elena’s face changed at the name.
Aleandro caught it.
“You know him?”
“No.”
“You reacted.”
“I’ve heard the name.”
“Where?”
Elena stepped backward.
“Rose.”
Aleandro moved around the desk.
“What did she say about him?”
Elena’s breathing quickened.
“She told me if I ever heard that name, I was supposed to take Sophie and disappear.”
Marco swore beneath his breath.
Aleandro’s expression darkened.
Dr. Samuel Vale had been the Moretti family physician for twenty years.
He had treated Isabella since birth.
And four years ago, his boat had exploded off Long Island.
No body had ever been recovered.
Everyone assumed he had died.
Aleandro suddenly remembered something.
Vale had been inside St. Catherine’s the night Isabella died.
He had arrived shortly after the accident.
Aleandro had been too shattered to question why.
His daughter’s family doctor coming to the hospital had seemed natural.
Now nothing seemed natural.
“Get the envelope,” Aleandro said.
Elena shook her head.
“No.”
“Someone stole my daughter’s file.”
“And that’s exactly why I won’t bring the envelope here.”
Aleandro stared at her.
“You think someone inside this house is involved.”
“I think Rose spent the last months of her life terrified.”
“Of Samuel Vale?”
“Among others.”
“Who?”
“She wouldn’t tell me.”
Aleandro’s phone vibrated.
A security message.
He opened it.
One sentence appeared.
Gate camera intercepted an unauthorized vehicle. Driver escaped on foot.
Attached was a photograph of the abandoned car.
Aleandro enlarged it.
On the back seat sat a long-lens camera.
Beside it were dozens of photographs.
Elena entering Greystone.
Sophie playing near the servants’ garden.
Sophie sleeping against her mother’s shoulder.
And one close-up shot centered precisely on the birthmark beneath Sophie’s ear.
Elena covered her mouth.
“Oh, God.”
Aleandro’s expression became stone.
Someone had already known about the mark.
Someone had been watching Sophie before Aleandro ever saw her.
He called Dominic.
“Lock every road leading away from the estate. Find that driver.”
Then he looked at Elena.
“We’re opening Rose’s envelope.”
She shook her head.
“You don’t understand.”
“I understand enough.”
“No, you don’t.”
Her voice broke.
“Rose didn’t tell me the truth until the night she died.”
Aleandro stopped.
“What truth?”
Elena looked at Isabella’s photograph.
“She said your daughter’s accident wasn’t an accident.”
The room went silent.
Aleandro had spent five years blaming rain.
A sharp curve.
A careless driver.
Fate.
He had buried Isabella beside her mother and accepted that some tragedies had no villain.
Now Elena looked directly into his eyes.
“Rose said someone wanted Isabella dead.”
Aleandro felt every emotion disappear except one.
A cold, controlled fury he had not experienced in years.
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
Marco’s face had gone pale.
Aleandro stepped closer.
“What exactly did Rose say?”
Elena whispered the words.
May you like
“She said Isabella Moretti was killed because someone discovered what was hidden in her blood.”
And somewhere beneath Greystone Manor, unnoticed by any of them, a man wearing a security uniform quietly deleted twelve minutes of surveillance footage.
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