Chapter 6 - THE SECRET BENEATH THE EMERALDThe news that Evelyn had disappeared left me staring at the hospital doorway long after Marco ended the call.
For several minutes, I couldn't move.
The woman who might be my biological mother had vanished.
Someone had entered her house.
Someone had left a message about me.
And somehow, the same family that had spent decades hiding the truth was still one step ahead.
I looked at Dante.
"Tell me she's alive."
He held my gaze.
"We don't know."
"Tell me you're going to find her."
"We're going to help the police find her."
I wanted to scream.
I wanted to throw something.
Instead, I whispered, "I'm tired of people disappearing."
My father.
My mother.
The life I believed I had.
And now Evelyn.
Dante sat beside me.
"I know."
"No, you don't."
He lowered his eyes.
"You're right. I don't know exactly what this feels like for you."
I stared at him, surprised by the answer.
For as long as I could remember, Dante had tried to fix everything.
If I was sad, he bought me presents.
If I was frightened, he removed the threat.
If I was angry, he found someone to blame.
But this time, he simply sat beside me.
And somehow, that helped more.
By late afternoon, investigators established that Evelyn had not been taken from her home.
A neighbor's doorbell camera showed her leaving around 5:40 that morning.
She carried a small suitcase and climbed into a gray sedan.
The driver was a woman.
No visible struggle.
No broken windows.
The house had been disturbed, but nobody knew when or by whom.
"Maybe she's hiding," I said.
Marco nodded.
"Possibly."
"Then why leave that message?"
"Someone could have entered after she left."
"Or she left it herself."
He considered the idea.
"Why would she?"
"Because she wanted someone to know I was connected."
Marco leaned against the wall.
"That's possible."
I looked at the photograph of Evelyn's house again.
The blue siding.
The flowers.
The framed picture of me as a child.
And then something occurred to me.
"Marco, who sent us the first photograph?"
"We don't know."
"What if Evelyn did?"
He frowned.
"Why send it anonymously?"
"Because she was afraid. Maybe she wanted to see whether we'd come looking."
Marco studied me.
"That would explain why the photograph included your childhood picture."
"And why the messages were personal."
He nodded slowly.
"Tell Detective Shaw."
I did.
For the first time in twenty-four hours, I felt like I was contributing something rather than merely waiting to be rescued.
That evening, my doctor told me I could likely be discharged the next morning if my condition remained stable.
The news brought relief.
But it also brought fear.
Where would I go?
The mansion belonged to Adrian's family, or at least that was what I had believed.
My apartment in Manhattan had been sold when we married.
My savings were held in an account Adrian controlled jointly.
And the thought of returning to any place associated with him made my skin crawl.
Dante seemed to understand without my asking.
"You can stay at the house in Westchester."
I blinked.
"Our old house?"
He smiled gently.
"The one with the terrible kitchen wallpaper."
I laughed.
"Dad loved that wallpaper."
"Dad had questionable taste."
"He said the yellow flowers made the room cheerful."
"Those flowers looked like angry sunflowers."
I laughed harder.
For a moment, I could almost hear our father arguing with Dante over paint colors.
The house had been ours before the money.
Before the business empire.
Before our lives became complicated.
I remembered sitting at the kitchen table while Sofia helped me with homework.
I remembered Roman sneaking cookies from the pantry.
I remembered Luca chasing me through the backyard.
"Is it still there?" I whispered.
Dante nodded.
"I never sold it."
"Why?"
His eyes softened.
"Because it was home."
I began crying again.
He squeezed my hand.
"Come home, Bella."
The following morning, I left the hospital wearing loose clothes Luca had purchased from a nearby boutique.
He had somehow managed to buy six pairs of pajamas, four sweaters, three pairs of slippers, and a stuffed rabbit.
I stared at the enormous shopping bags.
"Luca, I'm thirty-five."
He shrugged.
"You liked rabbits when you were little."
"That was thirty years ago."
"Some things don't change."
I picked up the rabbit.
It was gray, with floppy ears and a ridiculous pink bow.
I held it against my chest.
"Thank you."
Luca looked away quickly.
"Yeah, well. Don't get emotional."
We drove to Westchester.
Dante sat beside me while Roman drove.
Two security vehicles followed at a respectful distance.
The arrangement made me uneasy.
"I don't want to live surrounded by guards."
Dante nodded.
"It's temporary while the threats are assessed."
"How temporary?"
"We'll review it with you and the professionals helping us."
I looked at him.
"That's better."
He smiled.
"I'm learning."
The house appeared at the end of a quiet tree-lined road.
White siding.
Green shutters.
A long wooden porch.
And beneath the front window, my mother's rosebushes were still blooming.
I pressed my hand to my mouth.
"Oh, Dante."
He looked out the window.
"Roman hired someone to maintain the garden."
Roman grunted.
"Dad would've haunted us if we'd let those roses die."
The car stopped.
For a moment, I couldn't move.
Then Dante opened my door.
I stepped onto the driveway.
The air smelled of damp leaves and fresh grass.
Everything felt smaller than I remembered.
The porch.
The steps.
The front door.
But when I entered the kitchen, the yellow floral wallpaper was still there.
I burst into tears.
Dante wrapped his arms around me.
"Welcome home."
That afternoon, I slept for six hours.
When I woke, the house was quiet.
I went downstairs and found Marco at the kitchen table.
He had a stack of documents beside him.
A cup of cold coffee rested near his elbow.
"Working?" I asked.
He looked up.
"Trying to."
I sat opposite him.
"Any news?"
"Adrian has been arraigned. His lawyer is seeking conditions that would allow him to remain out of custody while the case proceeds."
My stomach tightened.
"Could he come here?"
"We've requested protective measures. We'll follow whatever conditions the court imposes."
I nodded.
"What about Margaret?"
"She's hired a criminal defense attorney."
"That sounds promising."
Marco almost smiled.
"Perhaps."
I studied the documents.
"What are those?"
"Property records. Old trust documents."
"Can I see?"
He hesitated.
Then pushed them toward me.
At the top of the first page was the name:
MORETTI FAMILY INVESTMENT TRUST.
Below it were signatures.
My father's.
William Vale's.
And a third name I hadn't expected.
Evelyn Hart.
I traced the letters with my finger.
"She was a trustee?"
Marco nodded.
"Yes."
"What does that mean?"
"She had duties to administer certain assets for the benefit of the trust's beneficiaries."
"Us?"
"Potentially."
I turned another page.
There was a complicated diagram of companies, properties, and financial interests.
I recognized several names.
The Atlantic Crown Hotel.
The Hudson Meridian Resort.
The Bellmont Tower.
All properties Adrian had claimed his grandfather built from nothing.
"These belonged to Dad?"
"Not entirely. But his trust held significant interests in the original ventures."
I looked at Marco.
"How did the Vales take control?"
"That's what we're trying to prove. Some assets were transferred through transactions we believe may have involved forged approvals and concealed ownership."
I stared at the signatures.
Then I noticed something.
"Marco."
"Yes?"
"This isn't Dad's handwriting."
He leaned forward.
"What?"
I pointed to one of the signatures.
"My father always wrote the M in Moretti with three sharp peaks. Look at this one."
Marco took the page.
The signature looked convincing.
Almost perfect.
But I knew my father's handwriting.
He had written hundreds of notes to me.
Lunchbox messages.
Birthday cards.
Letters from business trips.
I remembered his signature because I used to practice copying it when I was little.
"See that curve?" I asked. "He never wrote it that way."
Marco became very still.
"Are you sure?"
"Absolutely."
He photographed the page.
"We'll have a qualified examiner review it."
I turned another document.
A trust amendment.
Another suspicious signature.
Then another.
My stomach tightened.
"Marco, there are at least four."
He nodded.
"Possibly more."
I stared at the papers.
For twenty-nine years, the family that accused my father of financial misconduct had been profiting from transactions he might never have authorized.
And now they had humiliated his daughter.
Not because I was worthless.
But perhaps because they needed me to believe I was.
I looked at Marco.
"Why would Adrian need to marry me?"
He sat back.
"We think there may have been unresolved beneficial interests that couldn't easily be extinguished without your consent."
"Then why didn't he ask me to sign something?"
Marco looked uncomfortable.
"Did he ever ask you to sign documents during your marriage?"
I frowned.
"Of course. Tax returns. Insurance forms. Foundation paperwork."
"Anything related to family assets?"
I thought carefully.
Then I remembered.
Three weeks after our wedding, Adrian had taken me to his attorney's office.
He told me it was standard estate planning.
There had been a thick packet of documents.
I signed where he pointed.
I didn't read every page.
At twenty-eight, newly married and hopelessly in love, I trusted him.
"Oh, God."
Marco's expression changed.
"What?"
"I signed something after the wedding."
"Do you remember the attorney?"
"Gerald Price."
Marco immediately wrote down the name.
"The Vale family's former general counsel."
"Former?"
"He retired last year."
I thought back.
Gerald had seemed kind.
He offered me tea.
He joked about Adrian being lucky to marry such a beautiful woman.
Then he covered portions of the documents with sticky notes, showing me where to sign.
A chill crept through me.
"Marco, I don't think I ever received copies."
His face tightened.
"We'll request them through the proper legal process."
I stared at the kitchen wall.
"And if those signatures transferred Dad's property?"
"Then we'll challenge their validity and investigate the circumstances."
I shook my head.
"Adrian didn't just hurt me."
Marco said nothing.
"He may have spent seven years stealing from me."
My brother reached across the table.
"We'll find out."
At that moment, the doorbell rang.
I jumped.
Marco immediately rose.
A security officer checked the camera and announced that a woman was waiting on the porch.
She was elderly.
Her hair was silver.
She wore a dark blue coat.
And around her neck hung an emerald pendant.
My heart began pounding.
"Marco."
He looked at the monitor.
His face drained of color.
"Evelyn."
I stood so quickly the chair scraped against the floor.
The officer opened the door after confirming her identity.
The woman stepped inside.
She looked older than in the wedding photograph.
Thinner.
More fragile.
But her eyes were exactly as I remembered.
She stopped when she saw me.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then she pressed one hand over her mouth.
"Isabella."
I stared at her.
"Are you my mother?"
Her face crumpled.
"Yes."
The word struck me harder than anything Adrian had done.
I stepped backward.
"No."
Evelyn began crying.
"I know you hate me."
"I don't even know you."
She nodded.
"That's fair."
"Why did you leave me?"
Her shoulders shook.
"I didn't want to."
"Then why?"
Evelyn looked at Marco.
"Because Margaret told me that if I ever tried to claim my daughter, she'd make sure Isabella died the same way Gabriel did."
The room fell silent.
I felt my heart pounding against my ribs.
"What do you mean, the same way?"
Evelyn opened her purse.
From inside, she removed a small silver key.
It was attached to a chain.
She placed it on the kitchen table.
"I've spent twenty-nine years waiting for the courage to tell you what happened."
Tears rolled down her cheeks.
"Your father wasn't killed because of a business dispute."
I stared at her.
"Then why?"
She looked toward the rosebushes outside.
"Because he discovered the children."
A cold sensation crawled through my body.
"What children?"
Evelyn closed her eyes.
"The children the Vales were using to hide their money."
May you like
And when she looked at me again, her next words changed everything.
"Isabella, you weren't the only baby whose identity they stole."
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