Chapter 13 - The Night I Was Born
There is a particular kind of fear that appears when the truth threatens everything you believe about yourself.
I had experienced fear for Grace.
For our son.
For Samuel.
But standing beneath my family's estate with Isabella's final words echoing in my head, I felt something different.
I was afraid of learning who I really was.
Detective Bennett insisted we return to the main house.
The underground search continued without us.
I sat in my father's study, surrounded by books I had inherited but rarely opened.
Bennett placed a notebook on the desk.
"Let's establish what we know."
I nodded.
"Your father was previously involved with Isabella."
"Yes."
"She had a daughter named Evelyn."
"Yes."
"Your mother concealed information about both of them."
"And imprisoned Isabella."
"We're gathering evidence."
I stared at her.
"She just called me."
"I know."
Bennett leaned forward.
"But until we find her, we need to consider what Elena gains by making you question your own history."
I understood her caution.
My mother had spent a lifetime manipulating people through carefully selected facts.
A truth revealed at the right moment could destroy someone as efficiently as a lie.
Still, I couldn't forget Isabella's face.
Or the way her voice trembled when she mentioned my birth.
Bennett continued.
"Do you know where you were born?"
"At a private clinic outside Albany."
"Which clinic?"
"St. Catherine's."
She wrote it down.
"Do you have your birth certificate?"
"Of course."
"Have you seen the original?"
I hesitated.
"No."
"Who handled your records?"
"My mother."
Bennett looked at me.
I already knew what she was thinking.
Every official record of my childhood had passed through Elena's hands.
My medical history.
My school registration.
My identity documents.
Even the photographs in the family albums.
My father had rarely discussed my birth.
Whenever I asked, Elena told the same story.
It had been a difficult delivery.
She nearly died.
The doctor saved us both.
And my father never stopped thanking her for giving him a son.
I had grown up carrying that story like a debt.
Now I wondered whether she had invented it.
Bennett left to contact the clinic.
I remained alone.
For the first time in years, I opened the locked drawer at the bottom of my father's desk.
Inside were old letters and personal documents.
One envelope bore a date from shortly after my birth.
The handwriting belonged to my father.
I unfolded the paper.
My beloved Isabella,
I don't know whether this letter will ever reach you.
They tell me you are gone.
They tell me the baby is gone.
I cannot accept it.
I stopped reading.
My hands began trembling.
The baby.
I read the next paragraph.
Every time I look at Dante, I think of what I lost.
My heartbeat thundered.
Elena says I must stop asking questions.
She says the past is dead.
But something inside me refuses to believe her.
I stared at the page.
The words could mean many things.
My father might have been grieving Isabella's daughter while raising me.
He might have been referring to another child.
Or he might have been leaving a warning.
I called Bennett.
"Come back."
She returned minutes later.
I handed her the letter.
She read it carefully.
Then she looked at me.
"There's a possibility we need to investigate."
I nodded.
"That Elena isn't my biological mother."
"Possibly."
The word hung in the air.
I looked toward the portrait above the fireplace.
Elena and Vittorio Rossi.
A perfect family.
A carefully constructed image.
Bennett placed the letter into an evidence sleeve.
"We'll need verified records and DNA testing before drawing conclusions."
I agreed.
I had learned what happened when people accepted convenient stories without proof.
I would not repeat that mistake.
My phone rang.
The hospital.
For a moment, I feared the worst.
"Mr. Rossi," the nurse said, "your wife is asking whether you'll come see your son."
I closed my eyes.
My son.
Whatever I learned about my birth, he was real.
He was alive.
And he needed me.
"I'm coming."
When I returned to the hospital, Grace was sitting up.
She looked tired, but color had returned to her cheeks.
The nurse wheeled her carefully toward the neonatal unit.
I walked beside her.
Samuel waited outside with Nico.
He ran toward me.
"Dante!"
I crouched.
"Hey, buddy."
He wrapped both arms around my neck.
I held him tightly.
"Did you find Mommy?"
The question cut through me.
"Not yet."
His eyes filled.
"But we're still looking."
He nodded.
Then he reached into his pocket.
"I found something."
He placed a folded piece of paper in my hand.
It was a drawing.
A woman stood beside a little boy.
Behind them was a house with blue flowers on the wall.
In the corner, he'd drawn a second woman.
Older.
Silver-haired.
I pointed to her.
"Who's this?"
"The lady who talked to me."
"Isabella?"
He shrugged.
"She said her name was Bella."
I stared at him.
"Did she tell you anything else?"
Samuel nodded.
"She said I should remember a song."
"What song?"
He began humming.
A soft melody.
Six simple notes.
I knew them.
My father used to hum that melody when I was a little boy.
I hadn't heard it in years.
Samuel finished and looked up.
"She said if you remembered the song, you'd know where to find her."
I felt my pulse quicken.
"Did she tell you where?"
He shook his head.
"But she said the last word."
"What word?"
Samuel thought for a moment.
May you like
Then he whispered it.
"Orchard."
