Chapter 9 - THE DAUGHTER THE KING NEVER KNEW
For the first time since meeting Salvatore Lombardi, I saw him cry.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
One tear slid down his cheek as he stared at the birth certificate.
“Sofia,” he whispered.
He said the name as though it might disappear if he spoke too loudly.
I wanted to reach for his hand.
But something in the file caught my attention.
The birth certificate had been amended.
The original father's name was blacked out.
A note beneath it read:
PATERNITY CONFIRMED — PRIVATE LABORATORY.
“Salvatore,” I said gently, “we need independent confirmation.”
He nodded.
“I know.”
But his eyes never left the screen.
Marco searched the hospital database.
The relocation authorization listed a facility called St. Agnes Children's Residence.
It had closed five years earlier.
Its records had been transferred to a private foundation.
The Mercer Family Trust.
I frowned.
“Why does that name sound familiar?”
Salvatore's expression darkened.
“Because Vincent Hale sits on its board.”
Carmine swore under his breath.
“Of course he does.”
We left the hospital before sunrise.
By then, Salvatore had made three calls.
One to a private investigator.
One to an attorney.
And one to a woman named Grace Whitmore.
She arrived at the mansion at seven that morning.
She was in her late fifties, with gray hair and tired eyes.
When Salvatore entered the room, she began crying.
“Mr. Lombardi.”
“Where is my daughter?”
Grace covered her mouth.
“I prayed this day would come.”
Salvatore stepped closer.
“Where?”
“She was moved after Isabella disappeared. We were told you were dead.”
“Who told you?”
“Vincent Hale.”
I felt Salvatore's anger rising.
I placed a hand on his arm.
He looked down at it.
Then breathed slowly.
Grace continued.
“Sofia was placed with a foster family. She was healthy. Happy. But three years ago, someone came asking questions.”
“Who?”
“A man with hospital credentials.”
“Vincent?”
“No. Someone younger.”
Grace reached into her purse.
She removed a photograph.
A little girl stood beside a woman in a garden.
Dark hair.
Gray eyes.
A shy smile.
Salvatore took the picture with trembling fingers.
“She looks like Isabella.”
Grace nodded.
“She has your eyes.”
I studied the photograph.
Something about the woman beside Sofia seemed familiar.
Then I recognized her.
My father's former receptionist.
Margaret Ellis.
She had worked at our clinic until the year Dad died.
“That's Margaret,” I whispered.
Grace looked at me.
“You know her?”
“Yes.”
Her face drained of color.
“Then you need to call her.”
“Why?”
Grace's voice trembled.
“Because Margaret isn't Sofia's foster mother.”
May you like
She swallowed.
“She's the woman who took Sofia away from Vincent Hale the night he tried to kill her.”
