Chapter 3 - The Child My Mother Buried Alive

# Chapter 3 - The Child My Mother Buried Alive

The photograph of my supposedly dead son was taken eleven days ago.

I knew because the date was printed on the corner of a newspaper lying on the garden table behind him.

Eleven days.

While I was signing contracts, attending board meetings, and drinking myself to sleep in a house filled with memories of my missing family, my mother had been standing in a sunlit garden beside a little boy who should never have existed.

A boy with my eyes.

My blood.

My name.

Alessandro.

I enlarged the photograph until the pixels blurred.

His dark hair curled slightly above his ears. He had Elena's mouth, my father's stubborn chin, and a small crescent-shaped birthmark near his right eyebrow.

I remembered the pregnancy we had lost.

I remembered Elena screaming in the hospital.

But suddenly, I couldn't remember hearing our baby cry.

I couldn't remember seeing a doctor carry him away.

And I couldn't remember anyone showing me proof that he had died.

All I remembered was my mother standing in the doorway of Elena's hospital room, telling me that sometimes God took children before the world could hurt them.

I had believed her.

For five years.

My phone vibrated again.

You have six hours before Alessandro is moved.

A second message followed.

Do not tell Victoria you know.

Then the number disappeared from the encrypted application.

I stood in the hospital corridor, staring at the empty conversation.

Someone knew my family better than I did.

Someone had access to photographs, medical records, and information about children whose existence had been concealed for years.

And whoever they were, they wanted me to turn against my mother.

The frightening part was that they were succeeding.

"Roman?"

Dominic's voice came from behind me.

I locked my phone.

"What?"

"Security is ready to take Sophie to the Westchester estate."

"No."

He frowned.

"Your daughter can't stay in a hospital corridor all night."

"She's not going anywhere near Westchester."

"Then where?"

I studied him.

"Somewhere my mother doesn't know about."

Dominic's expression hardened.

"You're treating me like the enemy."

"My wife nearly tore out her IV trying to get away from you."

"You know I'd never hurt that little girl."

"I thought I knew a lot of things."

He looked away.

For the first time in eighteen years, the silence between us felt dangerous.

"Where is Sophie now?" I asked.

"With Dr. Bennett in the pediatric consultation room. Two security officers outside."

"Whose officers?"

"Mine."

"Replace them."

His head snapped toward me.

"Roman—"

"Use hospital security until Nathan gets here."

"You can't seriously believe—"

"Don't make me repeat myself."

Dominic stared at me for several seconds.

Then he nodded.

"As you wish."

He walked away.

I watched him until he disappeared around the corner.

And for the first time, I wondered how many of my father's secrets Dominic had inherited along with his loyalty.

Nathan Cross arrived forty minutes later carrying an old leather briefcase.

He was fifty-two, silver-haired, and perpetually exhausted-looking. He wore cheap suits despite earning enough from me to buy a small island.

Unlike most people in my world, Nathan rarely told me what I wanted to hear.

That was why I trusted him.

He looked at my face and stopped.

"What happened?"

I handed him the photograph.

He studied it.

Then the hospital document.

His expression changed slowly.

"Where did you get these?"

"Anonymous messages."

"Have you verified them?"

"Not yet."

He examined the signature.

"Roman, this could be fabricated."

"Then tell me it's impossible."

He didn't.

I stepped closer.

"Tell me my mother couldn't have arranged for a living child to be declared dead."

Nathan looked down.

That was answer enough.

"What do you know?" I demanded.

He opened his briefcase.

"Three months ago, I found irregularities in a charitable trust established by your father. The Saint Gabriel Children's Foundation."

"I know the foundation."

"Of course. Your family has funded it for decades."

"It supports orphanages and pediatric medical programs."

"That's what the public records say."

He removed several documents.

"Five years ago, the foundation began transferring unusually large sums to a private medical consultancy in Switzerland. The payments continued after your father's death."

"How much?"

"Just over fourteen million dollars."

"For what?"

"The invoices describe genetic screening, international guardianship services, and confidential patient relocation."

I stared at him.

"Children."

"Possibly."

"Don't soften it."

Nathan hesitated.

"I found records suggesting at least six minors were relocated through organizations connected to Blackthorn Protection."

The corridor suddenly seemed too narrow.

"Six children?"

"At least six. I couldn't establish their identities."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I couldn't prove the foundation was involved in anything illegal. Your father used complicated corporate structures. Some payments could have been legitimate."

I looked at Alessandro's photograph.

"And now?"

"Now we have a reason to investigate the records from Elena's pregnancy."

I shoved the phone toward him.

"Start with this boy."

Nathan studied the garden in the photograph.

Then he stopped.

"Wait."

"What?"

He enlarged the stone wall behind Alessandro.

A blue ceramic tile was embedded beside an arched doorway.

Nathan turned the screen.

"Do you recognize that?"

I shook my head.

"I've seen it before."

"Where?"

He opened an old folder on his phone.

A photograph appeared showing a Mediterranean-style villa surrounded by cypress trees.

The same blue tile sat beside the entrance.

"Villa Belladonna," Nathan said.

"Where is it?"

"Your family's private property outside Greenwich."

I frowned.

"We sold that property twelve years ago."

"Officially."

"What does that mean?"

Nathan met my eyes.

"The company that bought it was registered in Delaware. Its controlling shareholder is a trust."

"Which trust?"

"The Saint Gabriel Children's Foundation."

I looked again at Alessandro.

My son had been photographed less than an hour from Manhattan.

At a property my family supposedly no longer owned.

And my mother had been there with him.

At 1:08 a.m., I called Victoria.

She answered immediately.

"Roman. I've been trying to reach you."

"Where are you?"

"At home, naturally. Your behavior tonight was humiliating."

"Are you alone?"

A pause.

"Why?"

"Answer me."

"Of course I'm alone. Your security people treated me like a criminal."

I pictured her standing in the marble foyer of our family mansion, beneath the portrait of my father.

She had always been immaculate.

Always prepared.

Always in control.

"How is Sophie?" she asked.

"Sleeping."

"And Elena?"

My fingers tightened around the phone.

I hadn't told my mother Elena was alive.

"Why are you asking about Elena?"

Silence.

Then Victoria laughed softly.

"Because your daughter's miraculous return naturally raises questions about her mother."

"Does it?"

"Roman, I understand you're upset."

"Do you?"

"More than anyone."

I looked through the consultation room window.

Sophie was asleep beneath a hospital blanket.

"Mother, do you remember when Elena lost our first baby?"

The silence this time lasted longer.

"Of course," Victoria said.

"What happened that night?"

"Roman, why are we discussing this?"

"Because I want to know."

"Elena had a medical emergency. The pregnancy couldn't be saved."

"Did you see the baby?"

A breath.

"What kind of question is that?"

"Did you see him?"

Another pause.

"Your wife was fourteen weeks pregnant, Roman. The doctors told us there was nothing to be done."

"You didn't answer."

Her voice sharpened.

"Grief is making you irrational."

There it was.

The same phrase she'd used whenever I challenged her after Elena vanished.

Irrational.

Emotional.

Unstable.

A grieving husband who couldn't be trusted with the truth.

"Where is the medical record?" I asked.

"Your attorneys have all the relevant documents."

"Which attorney?"

"Roman—"

"Which attorney, Mother?"

"Arthur Bell."

I knew Arthur Bell.

He had managed my father's estate for decades.

He had also personally supervised the legal arrangements surrounding our lost pregnancy.

I suddenly remembered something else.

Arthur had visited Elena in the hospital while she was still sedated.

At the time, he'd explained that there were insurance documents requiring my signature.

"Thank you," I said.

"Roman, what are you doing?"

"Looking for answers."

"Some things are better left buried."

The words hung between us.

I looked at the photograph again.

"Is that what you told yourself?"

"Excuse me?"

"When you buried my son?"

Her breathing stopped.

Only for a moment.

Then she said something I would remember for the rest of my life.

"Be very careful who you believe tonight."

The call ended.

Nathan arranged for an independent team to obtain the original hospital records through legal channels.

Meanwhile, I returned to Sophie.

She was awake, sitting cross-legged on the bed.

A nurse had found her clean pajamas and a stuffed bear.

She held the bear against her chest.

"Daddy?"

"I'm here."

"Is Mommy okay?"

"She's resting. The doctors are helping her."

Sophie nodded solemnly.

Then she looked at the door.

"Is Grandma gone?"

"Yes."

She crawled toward me.

I lifted her into my lap.

For several minutes, we sat in silence.

Then I asked, "Sweetheart, have you ever met a boy named Alessandro?"

Her little body stiffened.

I felt it immediately.

"Sophie?"

She stared at the bear.

"Mommy said not to talk about him."

My heart started hammering.

"You know Alessandro?"

She nodded.

"Where did you see him?"

"At the pretty house."

"What pretty house?"

"The one with the flowers and the big swimming pool."

I showed her the photograph.

She pointed.

"That's him."

I struggled to keep my voice calm.

"What did he do when you saw him?"

"He gave me cookies."

Despite everything, a small smile touched her mouth.

"He had chocolate ones."

"Was Grandma there?"

Sophie nodded.

"Grandma said he was special."

"Special how?"

"She said he was the good one."

A chill went down my spine.

"What did that mean?"

Sophie shrugged.

"She said Leo was too little. And I was too much like Mommy."

I could barely breathe.

Victoria had been comparing my children.

Sorting them.

Deciding which one deserved her attention.

"And Alessandro?" I whispered.

Sophie lowered her eyes.

"He wasn't allowed to call you Daddy."

I closed my eyes.

A five-year-old boy had been told his father was dead, absent, or something worse.

And I had been living thirty miles away.

"Did Alessandro know who you were?"

She nodded.

"What did he call you?"

"Little sister."

I pressed my face against her hair.

For three years, someone had kept my children apart from me.

But not necessarily from one another.

That meant their captors had been moving them between properties.

Allowing contact.

Using that contact for reasons I didn't yet understand.

"Did you see Alessandro recently?"

Sophie hesitated.

"Before Mommy got hurt."

"Where?"

"The pretty house."

"Was he happy?"

She shook her head.

"Why not?"

Her eyes filled with tears.

"He wanted to come with us."

My throat tightened.

"Why didn't he?"

"Grandma said he had to stay."

Sophie rubbed her nose.

"Then Alessandro cried."

I kissed her forehead.

"I'm going to find him."

She looked up.

"And Leo?"

"And Leo."

"Promise?"

I held out my little finger.

"Promise."

She wrapped hers around it.

I had made promises in boardrooms that moved billions of dollars.

None had ever frightened me as much as that one.

At 2:36 a.m., Nathan returned with new information.

"Arthur Bell left his apartment twenty minutes ago," he said.

"Where is he going?"

"His driver took him toward Connecticut."

I stood.

"Villa Belladonna?"

"Possibly."

"Get the car."

Nathan blocked my path.

"Roman, rushing into that property without knowing who's inside could put the boy in danger."

"He's my son."

"And whoever is holding him knows that."

I hated that he was right.

Nathan placed a tablet on the table.

"I pulled historic corporate filings. There's something strange about the trust that owns the villa."

"What?"

"The Saint Gabriel trust has three beneficiaries."

"Who?"

"One is your mother."

"And the others?"

"Two minors whose names are protected under sealed guardianship records."

I stared at the screen.

"Alessandro and Leo?"

"Maybe."

"Can you get their identities?"

"Not without further access."

He hesitated.

"There's another complication."

"What now?"

"Arthur Bell filed an emergency petition in family court tonight."

"For what?"

Nathan's face darkened.

"Temporary protective custody."

"Of whom?"

"Sophie."

I felt something inside me snap.

"He filed to take my daughter?"

"On behalf of your mother. The petition alleges that you're emotionally unstable, that you have a history of violent conduct, and that your organized-crime associations make you an immediate danger to the child."

I laughed once.

It was an ugly sound.

"My mother is trying to take Sophie."

Nathan nodded.

"The hearing is scheduled for tomorrow morning."

I looked toward the room where my daughter was sleeping.

Victoria had moved quickly.

Too quickly.

Which meant she'd anticipated Sophie's return.

Or at least prepared for the possibility.

"Can she win?" I asked.

Nathan didn't answer immediately.

"She has money, political connections, and years of documentation portraying you as unstable after Elena's disappearance."

"Documentation?"

"Psychiatric evaluations, security reports, and sworn statements."

I stared at him.

"From whom?"

Nathan looked uncomfortable.

"Several household employees."

"And?"

He turned the tablet.

At the bottom of the petition was a sworn declaration from a man who claimed I was unfit to care for Sophie.

A man who had known me since I was eighteen.

A man I had trusted to protect my family.

Dominic Russo.

For a long time, I couldn't speak.

Dominic had signed the declaration four hours before Sophie appeared at the gala.

Four hours.

Before anyone supposedly knew she was coming back.

I read the timestamp again.

Then again.

Nathan stood beside me, silent.

"Where is Dominic?" I finally asked.

"We lost sight of him after you ordered the security replacement."

I looked at the signature.

"Find him."

"Roman—"

"Find him before I do."

My phone vibrated.

A message from Dominic.

Boss, please don't believe what they're showing you.

I stared at the screen.

Another message appeared.

Your mother knows about Alessandro. But she isn't the person who took him.

I typed:

Where are you?

His reply came immediately.

Go to your father's mausoleum. Look beneath Elena's name.

My blood turned to ice.

Elena's name?

My wife wasn't dead.

We had never held a funeral.

There should have been no grave marker bearing her name.

I called Dominic.

The phone went straight to voicemail.

Then a final message appeared.

And whatever you do, don't let Nathan take Sophie.

I slowly raised my eyes.

Nathan was standing across the room.

He was holding his phone.

Watching me.

"Roman," he said quietly, "who are you texting?"

Before I could answer, the door opened.

A hospital security officer stepped inside.

"Mr. D'Angelo, there's been a problem with your daughter's room."

My heart stopped.

"What problem?"

The officer swallowed.

"The nurse stepped out for less than two minutes."

I was already moving.

We ran down the corridor.

Sophie's door was open.

Her blanket lay on the floor.

The crayons were scattered beneath the bed.

And on her pillow sat the stuffed bear she had been holding minutes earlier.

Pinned to its chest was a small white card.

Written in careful black handwriting were six words.

ONE CHILD FOR THE OTHER TWO.

I turned the card over.

On the back was a photograph of Alessandro and Leo sitting together.

Both boys were alive.

Both were crying.

And between them stood a woman in a silver evening gown.

My mother.

But someone had drawn a thick red circle around the figure standing behind her.

A man whose face had been deliberately scratched away.

Beneath the photograph was one final sentence.

Ask Nathan why your father was really murdered.