Chapter 7 - THE SECRET INSIDE MY MOTHER'S LOCKETThere was a tiny scratch on the back of my mother's silver locket.
I had noticed it when Salvatore gave it to me.
Three delicate lines.
Almost invisible.
They looked like the branches of a little tree.
Or the wings of a bird.
I turned the locket over beneath the library lamp.
Nico watched from beside me.
"What are you looking for?"
"My mother used to tell me a story."
"About what?"
"A little bird that lost its way home."
He leaned closer.
I traced the scratch with my fingernail.
"Every night, she'd say, 'When you forget where home is, follow the little bird.'"
Nico studied the engraving.
"That looks like a bird in flight."
I nodded.
I pressed the edge.
Nothing happened.
Then I noticed the small hinge beneath the photograph.
It was slightly thicker than it should have been.
"Nico."
He looked up.
"There's something underneath."
He retrieved a magnifying glass from the desk.
Together, we examined the locket.
A nearly invisible seam ran around the photograph.
Nico picked up a small jewelry tool.
"May I?"
I hesitated.
It was the last thing I owned that had belonged to my mother.
What if we damaged it?
He seemed to understand.
"I'll be careful."
I nodded.
He worked slowly.
The photograph lifted.
Beneath it was a tiny folded piece of paper.
My breath caught.
Nico carefully unfolded it.
The paper was yellowed and fragile.
Three words were written in my mother's handwriting.
Where angels sleep.
Below them was a number.
417.
I stared at the message.
"What does that mean?"
Nico frowned.
"April seventeenth?"
"Emma was born April nineteenth."
"Could be a room number. A safe-deposit box. An address."
I looked at the note again.
Where angels sleep.
The words sounded familiar.
Terribly familiar.
Suddenly, I remembered my mother's voice.
"Good night, my little angels."
I closed my eyes.
A bedroom.
Two small beds.
One painted blue.
One painted pink.
A wallpaper border decorated with tiny birds.
A wooden music box sitting beneath the window.
And above our beds—
A hand-painted sign.
Where Angels Sleep.
My eyes flew open.
"The nursery."
Nico stared at me.
"What?"
"Our nursery at Blackthorn House. My mother painted those words above the door."
He looked toward Isabella.
She was already reaching for her phone.
"Find out whether the nursery survived the fire."
By noon, Isabella had located the original property plans.
Blackthorn House was not completely destroyed.
The west wing had burned beyond repair.
The main staircase collapsed.
The cellar suffered extensive smoke damage.
But a portion of the eastern structure remained standing.
Including the children's bedrooms.
After the fire, my father had acquired the property through one of his companies.
He kept it abandoned for years.
Then sold it to a private investment trust.
Isabella traced the ownership.
Her face tightened.
"You're not going to like this."
Nico folded his arms.
"Tell me."
"The property is currently owned by Santoro Holdings."
My stomach dropped.
Victor Santoro.
The man who had raised my sister.
The man connected to Matteo's disappearance.
The man who had helped destroy my mother.
And he owned the house where everything began.
Nico studied the documents.
"Can we get inside?"
"Not without legal authorization," Isabella replied. "And if we try to obtain it openly, Santoro will know."
I looked at the number on the paper.
417.
"What if that's not a room number?"
Nico turned.
"What do you mean?"
I pointed to the nursery floor plan.
"The bedroom was on the fourth floor."
Isabella leaned closer.
"Technically the third floor. The original plan includes a raised ground level."
I shook my head.
"My mother called it the fourth floor."
I studied the plan.
"There were seventeen steps between the landing and the nursery door."
Nico looked at me.
"Four. Seventeen."
I nodded.
"Maybe she wanted me to remember the staircase."
Isabella examined the diagram.
"Or she may have been referring to a specific compartment. Look here."
She zoomed in.
A tiny square appeared beneath the nursery wall.
"There's an access panel marked 4-17 in the original construction inventory."
My heart hammered.
"What's inside?"
"According to the notes, electrical conduits."
Nico stared at the screen.
"Or a hiding place."
Isabella nodded.
"We need to involve federal investigators."
Nico looked frustrated.
"That could take days."
"Then we give them enough evidence to obtain a warrant."
I placed the paper on the table.
"Whatever my mother hid, my father has spent eighteen years trying to find it."
Nico met my eyes.
"Then we won't waste time."
That evening, I received a call from my father.
His name flashed across my phone screen.
For a moment, I couldn't move.
Nico was sitting nearby.
He noticed my face.
"Who is it?"
I turned the phone.
His expression darkened.
"Don't answer unless you want to."
I stared at the screen.
My entire childhood had been spent waiting for my father's calls.
Answering immediately.
Apologizing if I missed one.
Explaining where I was.
What I was doing.
Who I was with.
But now something inside me had changed.
I wanted to hear what he had to say.
Not because he controlled me.
Because I wanted answers.
I pressed the button and put the call on speaker.
"Hello, Father."
A familiar voice filled the room.
"Nora."
My stomach tightened.
He sounded calm.
Almost affectionate.
"My darling girl."
I said nothing.
"I've been so worried about you."
Nico's jaw tightened.
"Are you being treated well?"
I stared at the phone.
The question was almost laughable.
My father had never cared whether I was treated well.
Only whether I behaved.
"I'm safe," I said.
A pause.
"That's good."
Then his voice changed.
"I hear you've been asking questions about your mother."
I glanced at Nico.
He nodded slightly.
I swallowed.
"Yes."
My father sighed.
"Nora, your mother was a very troubled woman."
Anger surged through me.
"Stop."
Silence.
"What did you say?"
"I said stop."
My voice shook.
But I continued.
"You've spent eighteen years telling me she was unstable. That she started the fire. That I killed her."
"Nora—"
"But she was trying to rescue children."
The silence that followed was long.
Then my father laughed softly.
"Who told you that ridiculous story?"
"I've seen her letter."
Another pause.
I heard him breathing.
"Where?"
I said nothing.
"Where did you get that letter, Nora?"
His voice sharpened.
"Answer me."
My heart began racing.
The old fear returned.
But Nico reached for my hand.
I looked at him.
He didn't speak.
He simply held my hand.
I took a breath.
"You don't get to order me anymore."
My father went silent.
Then he said:
"Be very careful, sweetheart."
The affection had vanished.
"You're playing with people who don't care whether you survive."
I stared at the phone.
"Like you?"
A sharp breath.
Then:
"You think Nico Ferrara loves you?"
I glanced at my husband.
My father continued.
"He married you for revenge. You're nothing but a tool to him."
The words hurt.
Because once, they had been true.
But then I remembered Nico handing me the annulment papers.
Giving me the freedom to leave.
Protecting me without demanding anything in return.
I looked at the phone.
"Maybe he made a mistake."
My father laughed.
"He made a terrible mistake."
I swallowed.
"But at least he admitted it."
Silence.
Then my father said something that turned my blood cold.
"Your mother made the same mistake, Nora."
I leaned forward.
"What?"
"She believed she could save everyone."
His voice lowered.
"And look what happened."
Nico moved closer.
I forced myself to speak.
"Where's Emma?"
My father stopped breathing.
I could hear it.
The sudden silence.
The tiny sound of surprise.
Then:
"Who told you about Emma?"
"Where is my sister?"
"That girl isn't your concern."
"She's my family."
He laughed.
"Family?"
Then his voice turned vicious.
"Your mother cared more about those children than she cared about keeping you safe."
I felt tears rising.
"No."
"She could have walked away. She could have stayed quiet."
He paused.
"But she decided to play the hero."
I gripped the phone.
"You killed her."
Silence.
Then my father whispered:
"Your mother was never supposed to die in that fire."
Nico went rigid.
I could barely breathe.
"What?"
My father's breathing grew uneven.
"She was supposed to understand that certain secrets were worth more than her life."
I stood.
"Where is Emma?"
"Come home, Nora."
"No."
"Come home, and I'll explain everything."
I shook my head.
"I'm not going anywhere with you."
My father's voice became cold.
"Then your sister dies wondering why you didn't save her."
The call ended.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then Nico reached for his phone.
"Adrian. Trace the call. Find Santoro."
I stood frozen.
My father's words echoed in my head.
Then your sister dies.
I could barely breathe.
Nico took both my hands.
"Nora."
I looked at him.
"He's going to kill her."
"We don't know that."
"He threatened her."
"I know."
"He killed my mother!"
My voice shattered.
Nico wrapped his arms around me.
I clung to him.
"Please don't let him hurt Emma."
"We're going to act," he said. "But we need to do this carefully."
I pulled away.
"What if there's no time?"
He looked at me.
"Then we make the time."
His certainty steadied me.
Just enough.
At 3:14 the following morning, Isabella called.
She had located a security video from a private clinic in Manhattan.
The footage showed Victor Santoro entering through a side door.
Beside him walked a young woman.
Sofia.
Emma.
My sister.
She appeared frightened but unharmed.
Isabella had also discovered that federal investigators were already examining financial irregularities connected to Santoro's companies.
Nico's attorneys had contacted them with the new evidence.
A coordinated investigation was now possible.
But there was something else.
"One of our contacts recovered an archived medical record," Isabella said.
Nico frowned.
"Whose?"
"Daniel Vale."
My heart jumped.
"Matteo?"
"Yes."
She hesitated.
"According to the records, Daniel was transferred out of the upstate facility six months ago."
"Where?" Nico demanded.
"A private hospital in Manhattan."
"Which one?"
Isabella took a breath.
"St. Catherine's."
I looked at Nico.
His expression changed.
"That's the hospital my father used when he was sick."
Isabella nodded.
"And it gets worse."
She sent us a photograph.
A patient lay in a hospital bed, connected to monitoring equipment.
His hair was dark.
His face thinner than in the previous photograph.
But his eyes were unmistakable.
Matteo.
Alive.
My husband's little brother.
Nico grabbed the table.
"Where is he now?"
Isabella's voice trembled.
"That's the problem."
She paused.
"The hospital says he was discharged into the custody of his legal guardian yesterday."
Nico went still.
"Who?"
May you like
Isabella swallowed.
"Edmund Ashford."
