Chapter 2 - BABY MORETTI
I took the bracelet from Lena carefully.
BABY MORETTI.
No first name.
No mother’s name on the visible side.
A hospital code.
A date of birth eight months earlier.
I knew the date.
Not because it belonged to anyone in my immediate family.
Because eight months earlier my younger brother Adrian had died.
Not on that exact day.
Three days before.
A heart attack, according to the official report.
Forty-three years old.
Healthy enough to run five miles before breakfast.
Dead on a hotel bathroom floor in Milwaukee.
I had never believed the heart attack.
I also never proved otherwise.
“Where did you get this?” I asked.
“Mom had it.”
“From Noah?”
“Yes.”
“Did she tell you what it meant?”
“No.”
“Did she know any Morettis?”
Lena shook her head.
Marco did not.
I noticed.
“What?”
He looked at me.
“Adrian.”
I already knew where he was going.
“Say it.”
“Eight months.”
“Yes.”
“He spent time around Kessler.”
“Yes.”
My brother had served as attorney and negotiator for several Moretti legitimate businesses.
He was also the one person in my family who liked politicians.
Not trusted them.
Liked them.
He enjoyed watching ambitious men pretend ambition was public service.
He had attended fundraisers with Kessler.
Shared dinners.
Golfed once.
Maybe twice.
I looked at Noah.
Dark hair.
Gray-blue eyes.
Moretti eyes, if you believed my mother.
My brother’s eyes.
No.
That was too easy.
Power makes people imagine blood connections because blood simplifies loyalty.
I refused the temptation.
“Hospital,” I said.
Marco nodded.
“We can trace the code.”
“Quietly.”
“Yes.”
Lena watched both of us.
“Are you giving him back?”
“No.”
She exhaled.
Not relief.
Not fully.
“Where will we go?”
“You’ll stay here tonight.”
Her eyes widened.
“In the restaurant?”
“No.”
Fear returned immediately.
I saw the thought.
Another house.
Another locked door.
Another adult making decisions.
I crouched so I was not towering over her.
“My building has a guest apartment upstairs. You choose whether the door stays open or locked. You eat. You sleep. Nobody touches you or Noah without asking.”
She searched my face.
“What if you change your mind?”
“Then Marco gives you a phone and you call whoever you want.”
“Police?”
“If you want.”
She looked horrified.
“Not police.”
“Then not police.”
Marco glanced at me.
I ignored him.
Eleven-year-olds should not control criminal negotiations.
But children who have been controlled by everyone deserve one room where they can say no.
I had learned that too late in life.
We moved Lena and Noah upstairs.
The restaurant occupied the first three levels of a renovated warehouse near the river. Offices and private rooms sat above.
My penthouse was elsewhere.
The guest apartment was used for visiting chefs and family members who drank too much to drive.
That night it became the safest place in Chicago.
At least, I intended it to.
Marco posted two women from security outside instead of men.
Lena noticed.
“Why girls?”
“Because you look less afraid.”
She stared.
Then nodded.
Progress.
Noah drank six ounces of formula.
Then another three.
The nurse I called—a pediatric specialist who had worked privately for my family for years—examined him.
Underweight.
Dehydrated.
No immediate emergency.
Lena refused examination.
The nurse did not force it.
Good.
At two in the morning, I returned downstairs.
Marco waited in my office with a laptop.
“We found the hospital.”
“Where?”
“St. Catherine’s.”
“Chicago?”
“Yes.”
“Birth date?”
“Matches.”
“Mother?”
His expression told me before he spoke.
“Record sealed.”
“By court?”
“No.”
That was unusual.
“Administrative seal?”
“Yes.”
“Authorized by?”
“Hospital legal counsel.”
“Why?”
“Unknown.”
“Father?”
“Blank.”
I poured coffee.
“Moretti name?”
“Infant was registered Baby Boy Moretti for twenty-six hours, then record amended to Noah Parker.”
“Who requested amendment?”
Marco hesitated.
“Dr. Samuel Grayson.”
I knew the name.
Everyone with money knew Grayson.
Obstetrician.
Private practice.
High-profile patients.
Exactly the type of doctor who appeared at midnight in a politician’s basement if paid enough.
“Same doctor Lena saw?”
“We don’t know.”
“Find a photograph.”
Marco did.
I carried the phone upstairs.
Lena was awake.
Sitting on the couch.
Noah asleep against her.
She looked at the doctor’s picture.
Her face changed instantly.
“That’s him.”
I sat.
“The man at Kessler’s house.”
She nodded.
“What did he do?”
“I don’t know.”
“Try.”
Her eyes closed.
“Mrs. Kessler kept saying the baby wasn’t supposed to be there.”
I went still.
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“Exact words.”
Lena breathed.
“She said, ‘Adrian said he would take care of it.’”
My hand tightened around the phone.
Adrian.
My brother.
“What else?”
“Dr. Grayson said Adrian was dead and they had to change the plan.”
The room got colder.
“Did they say Moretti?”
“No.”
“Did they say Dominic?”
“No.”
“What plan?”
“I don’t know.”
Noah stirred.
Lena rocked him automatically.
An eleven-year-old should not have been this good at settling a baby.
“How long have you cared for him?”
“Since Mom found him.”
“Always?”
“Mostly.”
“Your mother was sick.”
“She tried.”
“Who helped?”
“No one.”
Of course.
Poor families survive by turning children into adults before anyone asks permission.
“Lena.”
She looked up.
“What was your mother’s name?”
“Rachel.”
Real answer this time.
“Rachel what?”
“Delaney.”
I froze.
Not because Delaney was rare.
Because Adrian’s executive assistant for five years had been Rachel Delaney.
I had met her.
Quiet woman.
Early thirties.
Brown hair.
Competent.
Then she disappeared from our offices eighteen months ago.
Adrian said she quit to care for family.
I never asked.
I had been too busy.
A child stared at me.
“Did you know her?”
“Yes.”
Her face tightened.
“How?”
“She worked for my brother.”
“What brother?”
“Adrian.”
Lena stopped moving.
The same Adrian.
I could see the pieces connecting in her mind.
“Mom knew Noah’s dad?”
“Maybe.”
“Was Adrian Noah’s dad?”
“I don’t know.”
She looked at the baby.
Then at me.
“Is that why they want him?”
“Maybe.”
“Because he’s a Moretti?”
“Maybe.”
She hated the answer.
So did I.
I called Marco into the hallway.
“Pull everything on Rachel Delaney.”
“Already doing it.”
“Why did she leave?”
“Adrian filed termination paperwork. Reason listed family medical leave converted to resignation.”
“When?”
“Sixteen months ago.”
“Pregnant?”
“Unknown.”
“What if she was?”
Marco looked toward the door.
“Noah would be hers.”
I thought of Lena saying her mother found him.
Maybe Rachel lied to protect Lena.
Maybe she was not Lena’s biological mother.
Maybe none of the family relationships were what they appeared to be.
“Where is Rachel’s death record?”
Marco checked.
Then frowned.
“There isn’t one.”
“What?”
“No Rachel Delaney matching her age died in Illinois in the last year.”
“Other states.”
He searched.
Nothing obvious.
I returned inside.
“Lena.”
She looked up.
“How did your mother die?”
Her face closed.
“I told you.”
“No. You said not from cancer.”
She stared.
“Where?”
“At the house.”
“What house?”
“The foster house.”
“Before police took you?”
She nodded.
“How?”
“They said she fell.”
“Who said?”
“Briggs.”
I felt something sharp move through me.
“Was there a funeral?”
“No.”
“Did you see a body?”
Her eyes filled.
“No.”
“What happened that night?”
Lena’s voice trembled.
“We were staying in a motel. Mom was really sick. Someone knocked. She told me to take Noah into the bathroom and lock it.”
“What did you hear?”
“Fighting.”
“Shots?”
“No.”
“Then?”
“Quiet.”
She swallowed.
“I stayed in the bathroom for a long time.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know.”
“When you came out?”
“Mom was gone.”
Not dead.
Gone.
“Briggs was there.”
My jaw tightened.
“He told you she died.”
“Yes.”
“Then police came?”
“Two men with badges.”
“Uniforms?”
“No.”
“Did they take you to a station?”
She shook her head.
“Straight to the group home.”
Not police.
Maybe private investigators.
Maybe off-duty officers.
Maybe men with metal shields bought from costume stores.
“Did you ever see Rachel again?”
“No.”
“Did you ask?”
“They said stop.”
Of course they did.
Lena looked at me.
“Is she alive?”
I did not lie.
“I don’t know.”
Hope is cruel when given carelessly.
“But I’m going to find out.”
She stared at me for several seconds.
Then said, “Why?”
“What?”
“Why are you helping us?”
I had several answers.
Because Briggs annoyed me.
Because Kessler believed power entitled him to ownership.
Because my brother’s name was on an infant’s bracelet.
Because something about the marks on her wrist made me remember my younger sister at thirteen, hiding a bruise from our father after she broke one of his rules.
But the simplest answer was:
“Because you asked for food.”
She looked confused.
“So?”
“So nobody should have had to be brave enough to walk into my dining room for it.”
Her face changed.
Not trust.
Not yet.
Something near it.
My phone rang.
Marco.
I had just seen him in the hall.
I answered.
“What?”
His voice was low.
“Boss, we found Rachel.”
My heart changed pace.
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
I stood.
“Where?”
“Cook County Jail.”
I stopped.
“What charge?”
Marco hesitated.
“Attempted murder.”
“Of who?”
He answered.
“Charles Kessler.”
I looked at Lena.
She watched my face.
Then Marco added:
“Her arraignment record says she was arrested three weeks after Noah was born.”
That meant Rachel Delaney had not been hiding for months.
She had been in custody the entire time.
And someone had convinced her eleven-year-old daughter she was dead.
I hung up.
Lena whispered, “What?”
I looked at her.
I could not soften this without making it worse.
“Your mother is alive.”
The baby woke.
Lena did not move.
“What?”
“She’s alive.”
Her lips parted.
No sound came.
Then she started crying so silently I almost did not notice.
I moved one step toward her.
Stopped.
Let her choose.
She stood and crossed the room herself.
Not to hug me.
To hand me Noah.
I took him awkwardly.
Lena covered her face with both hands.
Her shoulders shook.
May you like
For the first time since she entered my restaurant, she let someone else hold the baby.
And for the first time, she let herself be eleven.
