Chapter 2 - THE MOTHER THEY TOLD ME WAS DEAD
I hadn't heard anyone speak about my mother in fifteen years.
Her name was Isabella Bellini.
At least, that was what Grandma Julia told me.
She had dark hair, gray eyes, and a beautiful singing voice.
She died after a sudden illness when I was three.
I remembered almost nothing about her.
A perfume bottle.
A blue scarf.
A woman's hands brushing hair from my forehead.
Now Daniel was claiming Isabella was alive.
I walked straight into Vincent's study without knocking.
He looked up from his desk.
“Sarah?”
I placed my phone in front of him.
“Explain.”
His expression changed when he read the messages.
“Where did Daniel get this information?”
“That's what I want to know.”
Vincent looked toward the windows.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then he asked, “What did Julia tell you about Isabella?”
“That she died.”
“Did she ever show you a death certificate?”
I stopped.
“No.”
“Did you attend a funeral?”
“I was three.”
He nodded slowly.
I felt sick.
“Vincent.”
He turned.
“Is my mother alive?”
“I don't know.”
I laughed bitterly.
“That's becoming everyone's favorite answer.”
His expression softened.
“But I know Isabella disappeared shortly before your father was killed.”
The room went silent.
“Disappeared?”
“Yes.”
“Grandma told me she was buried in Boston.”
Vincent shook his head.
“I never found a burial record.”
For a moment, I couldn't speak.
Then I sat across from him.
“Tell me everything.”
He explained that Alessandro Bellini had worked as a financial adviser for several investment companies.
He discovered suspicious transfers involving charitable medical funds.
Millions of dollars intended for patients had been routed through private accounts.
One of the companies belonged to Lorenzo Morelli.
Another was controlled by Vincent's father.
My stomach tightened.
“Your father was involved?”
Vincent nodded.
“Yes.”
I stared at him.
“And you brought me into his house?”
“This is my house. My father died nine years ago.”
“That doesn't answer my question.”
“No,” Vincent admitted. “It doesn't.”
For the first time, I saw something other than authority in his eyes.
Shame.
“Alessandro tried to expose the fraud,” Vincent continued. “He collected records, contacted investigators, and made plans to testify.”
“And Lorenzo killed him?”
“Someone arranged an attack before he could deliver the evidence.”
I closed my eyes.
Papa.
The man who taught me to ride a bicycle.
The man who bought me strawberry ice cream every Friday.
The man whose death had turned my childhood into a long series of goodbyes.
Then Vincent opened a locked drawer.
He removed an old photograph.
My father stood beside Vincent's father outside a waterfront warehouse.
Between them stood a young woman.
Dark hair.
Gray eyes.
A blue silk scarf.
My mother.
I covered my mouth.
“That's her.”
Vincent nodded.
Then he turned the photograph over.
On the back, written in Italian, were six words.
Isabella knows where the children went.
I stared.
“The children?”
Vincent's face darkened.
He swallowed.
May you like
Then said something that made the room spin.
“Sarah, your father's murder may have started with an investigation into missing children.”
