Chapter 3 — The Woman Who Lied About the Crash
Chapter 3 — The Woman Who Lied About the Crash
Sophia Rossi was gone.
Lorenzo knew it before he reached the servants' wing.
The door to her small room stood open.
The bed was neatly made.
Emma's stuffed rabbit was gone.
The closet was empty.
The little navy dress from the funeral was missing.
So was Sophia.
Lorenzo stood in the doorway.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then Marco appeared behind him.
“Boss?”
Lorenzo pointed inside.
“Find her.”
Marco looked around.
“She couldn't have gone far.”
“She didn't leave through the front gate.”
“How do you know?”
Lorenzo walked toward the window.
Fresh mud marked the outside sill.
A rope hung from the roof.
“She climbed out.”
Marco stared.
“With a three-year-old?”
Lorenzo looked down.
A tiny footprint was visible in the dirt below the window.
“She had help.”
Marco's expression changed.
“From who?”
Lorenzo looked toward the darkness beyond the estate.
“That is what we're going to find out.”
Sophia had been planning to disappear.
That much was obvious.
There were no clothes scattered across the room.
No abandoned suitcase.
No panic.
Everything she had taken had been chosen.
Prepared.
Packed.
The kind of disappearance someone planned long before they actually ran.
Lorenzo opened the wardrobe.
Behind the empty shelf was a small envelope.
His name was written on it.
LORENZO.
He opened it.
Inside was a single sentence.
If you are reading this, I failed to keep Emma safe.
Lorenzo's jaw tightened.
He read the second page.
Do not trust the crash report.
Third.
Do not trust the woman who identified Isabella's body.
Fourth.
And whatever you do, do not go to the summer house alone.
Lorenzo stared at the final line.
The woman who told you Isabella was dead was never a witness.
He folded the letter.
“Marco.”
“Yes?”
“Find the woman who identified Isabella.”
Marco frowned.
“We already have her statement.”
“I know.”
“Her name is Elena Moretti.”
“Find her.”
“She moved to Florida.”
“Then bring her back.”
Marco hesitated.
“She has federal protection.”
Lorenzo looked at him.
“Then find out why.”
Elena Moretti had been a nurse at St. Vincent's Hospital.
She had been working the night Isabella and the baby were supposedly killed.
According to the official report, Elena had been the first medical professional to examine the bodies.
She had identified Isabella from the silver swallow necklace.
She had confirmed that the smaller remains belonged to the newborn.
She had signed the death certificate.
For eight months, Lorenzo had never questioned her.
Now he couldn't stop thinking about one detail.
She had identified Isabella without seeing her face.
He needed to know why.
At 7:42 that morning, Marco called.
“We found her.”
“Where?”
“Miami.”
“Bring her.”
“She won't come willingly.”
“Then convince her.”
“Boss.”
“What?”
“There are two federal agents outside her house.”
Lorenzo paused.
“Agents?”
“Yes.”
“Then we don't touch her.”
Marco was silent.
Lorenzo continued:
“We watch.”
Two hours later, Lorenzo sat inside a black SUV across from a small house in Coral Gables.
The sun was bright.
Almost painfully bright.
Nothing like New York.
Nothing like the night everything had burned.
Marco sat beside him.
“She's inside.”
Lorenzo watched the house.
A woman in her fifties appeared at the window.
Gray hair.
Thin face.
She looked tired.
She looked frightened.
Lorenzo had never seen her before.
But something about her face felt familiar.
“That's Elena?”
“Yes.”
“Who is with her?”
“Two agents.”
Lorenzo watched.
A black sedan pulled into the driveway.
A man stepped out.
He wore a dark suit.
He carried a folder.
The agents opened the door.
Elena came outside.
Lorenzo's eyes narrowed.
“Who is that?”
Marco zoomed the camera.
“Federal prosecutor.”
“Name?”
“Daniel Hayes.”
Lorenzo looked at the folder.
“Why is he here?”
Marco shook his head.
“Don't know.”
The prosecutor spoke to Elena.
She looked toward the street.
For one second, her eyes met Lorenzo's.
She froze.
Then she turned and walked back inside.
Lorenzo immediately opened the car door.
Marco grabbed his arm.
“Boss.”
“I'm not going to hurt her.”
“You can't just walk into a federal witness's house.”
Lorenzo looked at him.
“Then watch what happens.”
He crossed the street.
The federal agents stepped outside.
“Stop.”
Lorenzo kept walking.
One agent raised a hand.
“Sir, you need to leave.”
Lorenzo stopped.
“My name is Lorenzo DeLuca.”
The agent's face changed.
“I know.”
“Then tell Elena Moretti I want five minutes.”
“She doesn't want to speak to you.”
“Tell her why I'm here.”
“I already know why.”
Lorenzo stared at him.
“What do you know?”
The agent said nothing.
Then the front door opened.
Elena stood there.
Her hands were shaking.
“Let him in.”
The agents exchanged a glance.
“Elena—”
“It's fine.”
She looked at Lorenzo.
“Come inside.”
The house smelled like coffee.
Ordinary.
Comfortable.
Wrong.
Lorenzo sat across from Elena at a small kitchen table.
She didn't offer him anything.
She simply stared.
“You look like your father.”
Lorenzo's expression hardened.
“You knew him?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“He came to the hospital often.”
“Why?”
“To see Isabella.”
Lorenzo froze.
“How often?”
“Every week.”
“My father died twelve years ago.”
Elena looked at him.
“I know.”
“Then you're lying.”
“No.”
She lowered her voice.
“Your father wasn't the only man in your family who knew Isabella.”
Lorenzo leaned forward.
“Who else?”
Elena looked toward the hallway.
“Your uncle.”
“Salvatore?”
“Yes.”
“What did they know?”
“They knew she was planning to disappear.”
Lorenzo stared.
“Why?”
“Because Isabella had discovered something.”
“What?”
Elena hesitated.
“She wasn't supposed to survive the birth.”
Lorenzo's face went cold.
“What are you talking about?”
“Your daughter.”
Elena swallowed.
“She was born with a rare blood condition.”
Lorenzo frowned.
“No one told me.”
“Because the medical records were altered.”
“By whom?”
“Someone with access.”
“Who?”
Elena looked at him.
“Doreen.”
Lorenzo's eyes narrowed.
“Who is Doreen?”
Elena's face changed.
“You don't know?”
“No.”
“She was Isabella's doctor.”
Lorenzo felt the room tilt.
“My fiancée's doctor?”
“Yes.”
“Why have I never heard that name?”
“Because she wasn't using it.”
“What name was she using?”
Elena whispered:
“Dr. Claire Morgan.”
Lorenzo stared.
“Claire Morgan.”
“Yes.”
He knew that name.
A pediatric specialist.
A respected physician.
A woman who had disappeared from New York shortly after the crash.
He had never connected her to Isabella.
“Why would she falsify the records?”
Elena looked down.
“Because she wasn't trying to kill your daughter.”
“Then what?”
“She was trying to hide her.”
Lorenzo stood.
“Hide her from whom?”
Elena's eyes filled with tears.
“From your family.”
“Which part?”
She whispered:
“All of it.”
Eight months earlier.
The night of the crash.
Elena remembered every minute.
She had been in the emergency department when the ambulance arrived.
The vehicle was burned.
The driver was dead.
Isabella was unconscious.
The baby was missing.
Then a second ambulance arrived.
A woman stepped out.
Dr. Claire Morgan.
She was carrying a newborn.
Elena stared.
“Where did you get that baby?”
Claire said:
“She was inside the vehicle.”
“But the rescuers said—”
“Don't.”
Claire's eyes had been terrified.
“Don't tell anyone she's alive.”
Elena looked at the infant.
“Why?”
“Because if they know she survived, they'll come for her.”
“Who?”
Claire looked toward the hospital entrance.
“Everyone.”
Lorenzo stared at Elena.
“You saw my daughter alive.”
“Yes.”
“You held her?”
“Yes.”
“She was alive.”
“Yes.”
“And you told me she died.”
Elena began crying.
“I was ordered to.”
“By whom?”
She didn't answer.
“Who?”
Elena whispered:
“Your uncle.”
Lorenzo's face became expressionless.
“Salvatore.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“He told me Isabella had died.”
“She hadn't.”
“No.”
“And my daughter?”
“He said the baby had died too.”
“But she was alive.”
“Yes.”
“Then why did you cooperate?”
Elena looked at him.
“Because I had a gun pointed at my son's head.”
Lorenzo fell silent.
“He threatened your son?”
“Yes.”
“He had him?”
“For six hours.”
Elena's hands shook.
“I thought if I obeyed, my son would live.”
“What happened?”
“He released him.”
“Then why are you still hiding?”
Elena looked toward the door.
“Because your uncle wasn't the person giving the orders.”
Lorenzo's eyes narrowed.
“Who was?”
Elena whispered:
“Your mother.”
Lorenzo stopped breathing.
“My mother died when I was nineteen.”
“I know.”
“She couldn't have ordered anything.”
Elena looked at him.
“Then you should ask how she died.”
Lorenzo stared.
“What does that mean?”
Elena stood.
She walked toward a cabinet.
Inside was a small metal box.
She brought it back.
“I kept this for eight months.”
She placed it on the table.
Lorenzo opened it.
Inside was a hospital bracelet.
His daughter's name was printed on it.
BABY GIRL DE LUCA.
Birth date.
The same date.
But underneath was another name.
Guardian: Elena Moretti.
Lorenzo stared.
“What is this?”
“The baby was transferred into my custody.”
“Why?”
“Because Isabella asked me.”
“When?”
“The night before the crash.”
Lorenzo's heart pounded.
“Isabella knew she was going to disappear.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't she tell me?”
Elena looked at him.
“Because she believed you were being watched.”
“By whom?”
“Your mother.”
Lorenzo closed his eyes.
“My mother has been dead twelve years.”
Elena whispered:
“Maybe.”
Lorenzo looked up.
“What does that mean?”
Elena opened another file.
Inside was an old photograph.
A woman stood outside a clinic.
Dark hair.
Green eyes.
Silver swallow necklace.
Lorenzo's heart stopped.
“That's Isabella.”
“No.”
Elena pointed to the woman beside her.
Lorenzo stared.
The woman looked almost identical to Isabella.
Same eyes.
Same mouth.
Same posture.
But older.
About forty.
“Who is she?”
Elena whispered:
“Your mother.”
Lorenzo stared at the photograph.
His mother had supposedly died when he was nineteen.
Yet the photograph had been taken five years ago.
Five years after her supposed death.
He looked at Elena.
“Where is she?”
“I don't know.”
“You know something.”
“I know where she was last seen.”
“Where?”
Elena looked toward the window.
“Your summer house.”
Lorenzo's blood ran cold.
The same house Isabella had warned him not to visit alone.
The same house where someone had left him a photograph of his daughter.
He stood.
“Why didn't you tell me this before?”
“Because I was afraid.”
“Of my mother?”
Elena shook her head.
“No.”
“Then who?”
She looked directly into his eyes.
“The woman in the photograph.”
Lorenzo frowned.
“You just said that was my mother.”
Elena nodded.
“It looks like your mother.”
She leaned closer.
“But it isn't.”
Lorenzo felt the room go cold.
“Who is she?”
Elena whispered:
“Isabella's twin sister.”
Silence.
Lorenzo stared.
“That is impossible.”
“I know.”
“My mother had no twin.”
“She did.”
“Then why didn't anyone know?”
“Because she was never supposed to exist.”
Lorenzo's heart pounded.
“What was her name?”
Elena hesitated.
“Isabella's mother called her Mara.”
“Mara.”
“Yes.”
“Where is she?”
Elena looked at the hospital bracelet.
“She took your daughter.”
Lorenzo froze.
“What?”
“She took the baby after the crash.”
“Why?”
“To use her.”
“For what?”
Elena's voice dropped.
“To force Isabella to come back.”
Lorenzo's fists clenched.
“Where is Isabella?”
“I don't know.”
“Where is my daughter?”
“I don't know.”
“Then what do you know?”
Elena looked at him.
“The coffin was part of the plan.”
Lorenzo stared.
“What plan?”
“To make the world believe both mother and child were dead.”
“Whose plan?”
Elena closed her eyes.
“Isabella's.”
Lorenzo shook his head.
“No.”
“She planned her own disappearance.”
“Why?”
“To protect your daughter.”
“From Mara?”
“Yes.”
“Then why did Mara take her?”
Elena's voice broke.
“Because Isabella trusted the wrong person.”
“Who?”
Elena looked at him.
“You.”
Lorenzo froze.
“What?”
“She believed you would follow the evidence.”
“I did.”
“No.”
Elena shook her head.
“You followed the wrong evidence.”
Lorenzo returned to New York before dawn.
He didn't sleep.
He didn't eat.
He didn't speak.
He sat in the back of the SUV while the city passed outside.
The photograph lay beside him.
His mother.
Or someone who looked exactly like her.
A woman who had supposedly died twelve years earlier.
A woman connected to Isabella.
A woman connected to his daughter.
He called Marco.
“Cancel the search for Sophia.”
Marco hesitated.
“Boss?”
“She's not the enemy.”
“How do you know?”
“Because Isabella trusted her.”
“And the mother?”
“Find everything on her.”
“Your mother?”
Lorenzo stared out the window.
“Not my mother.”
Marco went silent.
“Then who?”
Lorenzo looked down at the photograph.
“Mara.”
When they reached the mansion, Lorenzo walked straight to the family archive.
He unlocked the oldest cabinet.
Inside were photographs dating back fifty years.
His father's wedding.
His parents' first home.
Lorenzo as a child.
His brother.
Family gatherings.
He pulled out the oldest album.
His hands shook as he turned the pages.
There was his mother.
Pregnant.
Then another photograph.
His mother holding newborn Lorenzo.
Then—
a photograph that had never made sense.
Two baby girls.
Identical.
One was labeled:
Lucia.
The other:
Mara.
Lorenzo stared.
His mother had a twin.
Someone had removed her from the family history.
He turned the page.
A handwritten note appeared.
Mara died at birth.
Lorenzo read it twice.
Then noticed the handwriting.
He recognized it.
His father's.
But beneath it, another line had been written later.
Different ink.
Different handwriting.
Mara survived.
Lorenzo's heart pounded.
Then another page.
A list of names.
Doctors.
Nurses.
Lawyers.
Police officers.
And beside Mara's name:
KEEP HER AWAY FROM THE DE LUCA BLOODLINE.
Lorenzo stared.
Why?
Then he saw the final entry.
A date.
Eight months ago.
The night Isabella disappeared.
Next to it:
TRANSFER COMPLETE.
And beneath:
BABY DE LUCA — ALIVE.
Lorenzo closed the album.
For eight months, he had believed his family had been destroyed.
Now he understood something much worse.
His family had not been destroyed.
It had been divided.
Someone had deliberately taken his fiancée.
Someone had deliberately taken his daughter.
Someone had deliberately given him an empty coffin.
And someone had spent twelve years pretending to be dead.
Lorenzo stood.
“Marco.”
His lieutenant appeared in the doorway.
“Yes?”
“Prepare the jet.”
“Where are we going?”
Lorenzo looked at the photograph.
“The summer house.”
Marco's face tightened.
“Boss, Isabella told you not to go.”
“I know.”
“She said it's a trap.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you going?”
Lorenzo looked toward the nursery.
Because somewhere inside that abandoned house might be the woman who had stolen his daughter.
Because somewhere beyond that woman might be Isabella.
And because, for the first time, Lorenzo understood the most dangerous truth of all.
The people who had lied about the crash weren't trying to hide a murder.
They were trying to hide a kidnapping.
And the person who had planned it had known exactly how Lorenzo would react.
They had given him a coffin.
They had given him a funeral.
They had given him eight months of grief.
Because they needed him angry.
They needed him searching.
They needed him looking everywhere except the one place where the truth had been waiting.
Home.
Lorenzo looked at Marco.
“Bring every man we have.”
Marco nodded.
“All of them?”
Lorenzo's expression hardened.
“No.”
He picked up the photograph.
“Leave half behind.”
“Why?”
“Because if someone inside this house is working for Mara…”
He looked toward the nursery.
“…I want them to think I've left myself unprotected.”
Marco understood.
“You're setting a trap.”
Lorenzo nodded.
“For the person who has been watching me.”
He walked away.
Behind him, the family archive door remained open.
The photograph of the two newborn girls lay on the table.
Two identical faces.
Two different destinies.
And beneath them, written in faded ink, was one final sentence Lorenzo had not yet seen.
Mara did not steal Isabella's daughter.
She was following Isabella's orders.
Outside, the engines of Lorenzo's private jet began to roar.
And somewhere across the city, a woman in a red coat watched the DeLuca mansion through binoculars.
She smiled.
Then lifted a phone to her ear.
“He's going to the summer house.”
A man's voice answered.
“Good.”
The woman looked at the mansion.
“And Sophia?”
A pause.
“Let her run.”
“And Emma?”
Another pause.
“Bring the child to me.”
The woman smiled.
“Alive?”
The voice on the other end became cold.
“Of course.”
Then:
“She is the only witness who remembers where Isabella hid the real evidence.”
The call ended.
The woman lowered the phone.
And for the first time, the identity of the little girl Lorenzo thought was merely a maid's daughter became clear.
May you like
Emma had never been an ordinary child.
She had been at the center of the secret from the beginning.
