Chapter 3 - THE MOTHER WHO LIED TO BOTH OF US
I had spent twenty-eight years believing I was an only child.
My mother, Margaret Bennett, raised me in a small apartment in Queens.
She worked nights at a pharmacy.
Made pancakes every Sunday.
And told me my father died before I was born.
Now Roman was saying I had a sister.
A sister connected to his family.
A sister whose disappearance had somehow destroyed my life.
I stared at him.
“That's impossible.”
Roman nodded.
“I thought so too.”
“Your mother was Sophia Moretti.”
“Yes.”
“My mother was Margaret Bennett.”
“Yes.”
“Then how could we have the same biological mother?”
Roman reached inside his jacket.
I flinched.
He stopped immediately.
“It's a document.”
I said nothing.
He slowly removed a folded medical record.
“Your mother's legal name was Margaret Sophia Bellini.”
My breath caught.
Bellini.
Victor Bellini.
The man I'd heard Roman speaking to.
I stared at the page.
“That's not possible.”
Roman continued.
“Margaret was my father's first wife.”
The hallway went silent.
For several seconds, I couldn't understand the words.
Then everything began rearranging itself.
My mother.
Roman's father.
Elena.
The private facility.
The forged records.
“Are you telling me your father was my father?”
Roman shook his head.
“No. We verified that possibility before I came here. My father wasn't your biological father.”
Relief moved through me so suddenly that I nearly stumbled.
Roman continued.
“Margaret was pregnant with you before she married him. Elena was born years later.”
I covered my mouth.
“My mother was married to your father?”
“For less than three years.”
“Why didn't she tell me?”
Roman's expression darkened.
“Because she escaped him.”
My knees weakened.
Mother never liked discussing her past.
She hated expensive black cars.
Refused to answer calls from unknown numbers.
And cried whenever the evening news mentioned organized crime.
I'd always believed she was simply anxious.
Now I wondered whether fear had shaped our entire lives.
“Where is she?” Roman asked.
I looked away.
“Dead.”
His expression changed.
“When?”
“Five years ago.”
“How?”
“Cancer.”
Roman stared at me.
Then slowly shook his head.
“Nora, Margaret Bennett didn't die five years ago.”
My heart stopped.
“What?”
He handed me another photograph.
It showed an older woman standing outside a church.
Silver hair.
Dark eyes.
The same gentle smile I'd buried in my memories.
My mother.
The photograph was dated two months earlier.
I began shaking.
“Where did you get this?”
Roman's voice softened.
“From Elena.”
I stared at him.
“You found Elena?”
He nodded.
“Three weeks ago.”
My eyes filled with tears.
“Then where is she?”
Roman looked toward the restaurant entrance.
His expression changed.
May you like
And then he whispered:
“She was supposed to meet me here tonight. But someone intercepted her before she arrived.”
