Chapter 4 - THE HOUSE WITH GREEN BOOTS
Elena found Lorenzo standing outside her apartment with no bodyguards and both hands visible at his sides.
That was deliberate. She realized it when she saw how carefully he had positioned himself away from her door. A week earlier she would have assumed the master of the house had every right to appear unannounced. Now she understood that he was making an effort not to frighten her.
“Someone photographed Mia at the gate,” he said.
Elena's face drained. “Who?”
“I don't know. I have reason to believe it relates to the inquiry about my daughter.”
“Is she in danger?”
“Possibly.”
He showed her the message without hiding anything. Elena read it twice, then looked past him toward the servants' stairwell.
“I want to leave,” she said.
“Then we'll arrange it.”
“I don't mean move to another bedroom.”
“I know.”
He offered a car and a temporary apartment rented through Rebecca's law firm. Elena insisted that the lease be in her name and that she be allowed to choose the neighborhood. Lorenzo agreed. She called her own attorney, whom Rebecca had helped her find, and together they spent the night preparing to leave.
Mrs. Bianchi helped pack Mia's clothes. She said nothing until she reached the bottom drawer, where Elena kept Marcus's wedding photograph and the small bag of baby clothes he had never seen Mia wear.
Then the old housekeeper sat on the edge of the bed.
“I need to tell you something,” she said.
Elena continued folding sweaters. “You have had several chances.”
“Yes. And I was a coward every time.”
Mrs. Bianchi explained that, after Isabella's funeral, she had discovered a duplicate of the baby's hospital bracelet hidden inside a drawer of the abandoned nursery. It bore Sophia's name and a date of birth. The bracelet had a small tear where someone had cut it off rather than unclasping it.
“I thought it had simply been removed before the funeral,” she said. “Later, a letter arrived with no return address. It contained a photograph of a living baby and a demand that I continue treating Mr. Duca's household as though nothing had happened.”
Elena stopped folding.
“Who sent it?”
“I don't know. The letter said that if I told Lorenzo, the baby would disappear somewhere no one could find her. I believed it.”
“So you let him mourn a child you knew might be alive.”
Mrs. Bianchi lowered her head. “Yes.”
“Why are you telling me now?”
“Because I cannot ask you to protect Mia with lies when that's what destroyed this family.”
The confession did not make Elena trust her. It gave Elena a clearer understanding of how fear had become the household's most efficient servant.
The following morning, Elena and Mia moved to a modest apartment in Evanston, with a view of a parking lot and a little tree that had lost nearly all its leaves. Mia liked the tree immediately. She called it Mr. Skinny and announced that he needed a scarf.
Elena spent three hours unpacking medication, food, and the contents of a worn overnight bag. No armed men stood outside. The new locks worked. The kitchen sink dripped. For the first time in weeks, Elena felt capable of making ordinary decisions.
Rebecca visited that afternoon. She brought no flowers, only a list of practical arrangements: a pediatrician who accepted Mia's insurance, temporary employment options, contact numbers for emergency assistance, and the name of a licensed therapist experienced with bereaved children.
Elena appreciated the list more than any extravagant gesture Lorenzo could have made.
“Have you found the other little girl?” she asked.
“Not yet. We believe Susanne Ward left voluntarily after receiving threats. She may be avoiding everyone for good reasons.”
“And Lorenzo?”
“Trying very hard not to do something rash.”
That night, Rebecca received a call from a woman using a pay-as-you-go phone. She identified herself as Susanne Ward. She sounded exhausted but not frightened enough to surrender her caution.
“I don't know who you work for,” she said. “But somebody came to the school with paperwork I never signed. Nina doesn't belong to those people.”
“I'm an attorney investigating possible identity fraud,” Rebecca answered. “I don't need you to tell me where you are. I need you to know a child's identity may have been altered after a fatal accident.”
There was a long silence.
“Who told you that?” Susanne asked.
“Records and a recording. We're seeking independent verification.”
“My sister Patricia arranged for Nina to come to me when she was very small. Patricia worked for a private trust. She said the baby's parents had died, that adoption paperwork was delayed because of an estate dispute.”
“Did you ever see a birth certificate?”
“Only a replacement. It was issued months after the date on it.”
“Do you still have it?”
“Yes.”
“Keep it safe. Please don't let anyone pressure you into turning Nina over.”
Susanne swallowed audibly. “Is there a father?”
“Yes.”
“Does he want her?”
Rebecca glanced across her office at the photograph of Lorenzo standing beside Isabella years earlier, both younger than they had any right to be in the present.
“He does,” she said. “But wanting her doesn't give him permission to frighten her.”
“Good,” Susanne whispered. “Because she's had enough fear.”
They arranged to meet through a court-appointed child advocate in a neutral office. No addresses changed hands. No promises were made about custody. Rebecca hung up feeling that she had accomplished something more important than a dramatic rescue: she had persuaded a frightened guardian not to disappear entirely.
Meanwhile, Lorenzo entered Nico Bruno's office in the city without warning.
Nico rose from behind a glass desk. Behind him, the Chicago skyline shone in the late afternoon haze.
“Lorenzo. You should have called.”
“I wanted to see you in person.”
“About what?”
Lorenzo sat. “Our physicians.”
Nico smiled slightly. “Is Russo becoming expensive?”
“He has always been expensive. Tell me about his consulting company.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Who paid for the Bellwether Annex?”
Nico's expression did not change, but his right hand stopped moving toward the coffee pot.
“Old property,” he said. “A warehouse conversion.”
“You signed the lease through a company called Blue Finch Logistics.”
“We sign dozens of leases.”
“This one housed medical records and a basement nobody was supposed to enter.”
Nico leaned back. “Who has been feeding you stories?”
“I'm asking you about a business decision.”
“You sound like your wife.”
The words struck Lorenzo with the force of a physical blow.
For six years, Nico had never referred to Isabella without a formal expression of regret. Today he said the word wife as though she were still an annoyance.
“What did you say?” Lorenzo asked.
Nico raised one hand. “I meant she was always curious. She liked to pull threads that didn't belong to her.”
“And what happens to people who pull those threads?”
“Sometimes they find things they would have been happier not knowing.”
Lorenzo stood. He wanted to drag Nico across the desk. Instead he memorized the exact words and left. His attorney could decide whether they mattered. A confession extracted by fear would prove nothing.
Back at the estate, Mrs. Bianchi went to Isabella's room and opened a drawer beneath the dressing table. She removed a narrow wooden case hidden behind folded scarves. Inside was a miniature cassette tape and an old portable player with a cracked plastic lid.
She had kept the tape since before the crash. Isabella had recorded the family lullaby for Sophia because she expected to travel for work and did not want the baby to go without hearing her voice.
Mrs. Bianchi placed the tape in the player. The melody emerged thin and wavering, but recognizable.
She began to cry.
Then she heard a small click from the hallway.
The door was still closed. She crossed to it and found the handle turning slowly from the outside.
“Nico?” she asked.
No answer.
She stepped back and dialed Lorenzo, but before the call connected a voice spoke through the door.
“You should have burned that six years ago.”
It was a man's voice, familiar and cold.
Mrs. Bianchi did not move.
The voice added, “And you should never have let the little girl into the house.”
She looked down at the cassette player and realized that the song Mia had hummed might be the only innocent thing left in a household built upon carefully maintained deceit.
Then the hallway lights went out.
For a breathless moment Mrs. Bianchi considered opening the door. She had spent twenty years assuming every man who wore the Duca crest could be reasoned with. The instinct was so old that it nearly betrayed her again. Instead she backed toward the adjoining bathroom, closed its door, and pressed the emergency call button Lorenzo had installed after Isabella died. She had never used it before.
May you like
A distant alarm began to sound below the house. Someone swore in the corridor and hurried away. She remained where she was until Salvatore arrived with two estate employees and called her name through the locked door. Only then did she step out, holding the little cassette against her chest like a child she had almost failed to protect.
For the first time since the funeral, she was ready to tell Lorenzo everything she knew, including the part of her story she had hidden even from herself.
