Chapter 7 - THE LITTLE GIRL WHO NEVER DIED
A dead girl's photograph had just turned seventeen years of lies into something much more dangerous.
I stared at Isabella Moretti's face.
She looked about twelve.
Smiling.
Alive.
Standing beside the father everyone believed had vanished.
"Why didn't you tell the police?" I asked Sofia.
She began crying.
"I did."
Detective Brooks leaned forward.
"What happened?"
"Arthur told them the photograph was old. He said I was grieving and confused."
My stomach tightened.
"And they believed him?"
Sofia nodded.
"He had influence. People trusted him."
I looked at the picture again.
The date appeared in the corner.
But dates could be altered.
Photographs could be manipulated.
We needed proof.
Detective Brooks promised to have the image examined.
Then Sofia showed us a second item.
A hospital bracelet.
The name printed on it was Anna Moretti.
I frowned.
"Anna?"
Sofia nodded.
"That was the name Matteo used when he hid Isabella."
My heart pounded.
"Why hide his own daughter?"
Sofia wiped her eyes.
"Because someone had threatened her."
"Who?"
She hesitated.
Then whispered, "Arthur."
The room went silent.
Detective Brooks carefully asked her to explain.
Sofia described years of financial pressure, threats, and unexplained absences.
She believed Arthur had been connected to people Matteo was investigating.
But she'd never obtained enough evidence to prove it.
"I married the man who promised to save my family," she whispered.
"Instead, I think he helped destroy it."
I felt sick.
Then she looked at me.
"Your father warned Matteo about Arthur."
My chest tightened.
"Viktor?"
She nodded.
"He said Arthur wasn't investigating the corruption."
"He was protecting the people behind it."
The words hung in the room.
For the first time, the scandal surrounding Judge Henderson began to make sense.
He hadn't simply retired because someone had found evidence of misconduct.
Someone had threatened to expose an entire history of buried crimes.
The forty-seven poems.
The missing brother.
The supposedly dead child.
And my father.
Later that afternoon, I returned to Cello Nero to collect my belongings.
I'd taken leave while investigators reviewed the threats.
Marco was waiting near the employee entrance.
He looked exhausted.
"Natalya."
I stopped.
"What?"
"I need to tell you something."
I folded my arms.
"Then tell me."
He glanced toward the security camera.
"Not here."
I hesitated.
Then followed him into an empty staff office, leaving the door open.
Marco sat down.
His hands shook.
"I was paid to assign you to table twelve."
My stomach dropped.
"By whom?"
He looked ashamed.
"A woman."
"What woman?"
"She said she represented one of the Russian guests."
I stared.
"Did she give you a name?"
He nodded.
"Anna."
My heart stopped.
"Anna what?"
"Anna Volkov."
I felt cold.
Sofia had said Matteo used the name Anna for his daughter.
And now a woman using that name had arranged for me to translate the Russian negotiation.
Marco continued.
"She told me you'd know what to do when you heard the poems."
I stared at him.
Then whispered, "How old was she?"
"Late twenties. Maybe thirty."
My heart pounded.
Isabella would be twenty-nine.
The right age.
Then Marco handed me a small envelope.
"She asked me to give you this if anything happened."
I opened it.
Inside was a photograph.
A young woman with dark curls.
Smiling beside an older man.
Matteo Moretti.
On the back was a handwritten sentence.
Natalya, your father saved my life. Now it's my turn to save yours.
And beneath it was a phone number.
I called.
A woman answered in Russian.
"Hello, Natalya."
My blood ran cold.
"Anna?"
A pause.
Then she whispered.
May you like
"My real name is Isabella Moretti."
"And I've been waiting seventeen years to tell you how your father died."
