Chapter 6 — The Baby With Two Names
Chapter 6 — The Baby With Two Names
Lorenzo DeLuca had spent eight months mourning a daughter he had never held.
Now, standing outside the abandoned maternity clinic, he was looking at a little girl through the darkened window of a black sedan.
She was small.
Too small.
Three years old, perhaps.
Dark curls framed her face.
She was holding a gray stuffed rabbit against her chest.
And her eyes—
Lorenzo stopped breathing.
Chestnut.
The exact shade of Isabella's eyes.
The exact shade he had seen every morning when Isabella woke beside him.
But there was something else.
Something that made his knees almost give way.
The little girl was staring directly at him.
Not at the car.
Not at the people around him.
At him.
As if she knew exactly who he was.
As if she had been waiting.
Lorenzo took one step toward the vehicle.
The older woman inside lifted her head.
For several seconds, mother and son stared at each other through the glass.
Lucia DeLuca.
The woman Lorenzo had buried twenty-four years earlier.
His mother.
Alive.
She opened the car door.
“Lorenzo.”
He couldn't answer.
His mouth moved.
No sound came.
Lucia stepped onto the pavement.
She looked older than the woman he remembered.
But there was no mistaking her.
The same dark eyes.
The same sharp cheekbones.
The same expression she had worn the last time she kissed his forehead.
Except that memory had always ended with a funeral.
He had been nineteen.
He remembered the coffin.
The flowers.
His father's hand on his shoulder.
The priest saying words Lorenzo had hated ever since.
Your mother is at peace.
He had believed it.
For twenty-four years, he had believed it.
Now she stood in front of him.
Alive.
And she was looking at him with tears in her eyes.
“I know what you want to ask.”
Lorenzo finally found his voice.
“You're dead.”
Lucia flinched.
“Yes.”
“You died.”
“Yes.”
“I buried you.”
“No.”
His expression hardened.
“You were in the coffin.”
Lucia shook her head.
“Not me.”
Lorenzo looked toward the clinic.
His mind was struggling to hold too many impossible truths at once.
“You let me believe you were dead.”
“I had to.”
“You let me grieve you.”
“Yes.”
“You watched me become my father's son.”
Lucia closed her eyes.
“Yes.”
“And all this time…”
Her voice broke.
“I was trying to keep you alive.”
Lorenzo laughed once.
There was no humor in it.
“By pretending to be dead?”
“By disappearing.”
“You disappeared.”
“I survived.”
He stared at her.
Then his eyes moved to the car.
To the little girl inside.
“Who is she?”
Lucia didn't answer.
“Mother.”
Still nothing.
“Who is that child?”
Lucia looked at the girl.
Then back at him.
“Your daughter.”
The words landed harder than any gunshot.
Lorenzo stopped breathing.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“My daughter died.”
Lucia shook her head.
“No.”
“The coffin—”
“Was empty.”
“The crash—”
“Was staged.”
“Isabella—”
“Was alive.”
His voice cracked.
“Then where was my daughter?”
Lucia looked toward the child.
“With me.”
Lorenzo walked toward the car.
The little girl didn't move.
She watched him through the glass.
He stopped a few feet away.
He was afraid.
For the first time in decades, Lorenzo DeLuca was genuinely afraid.
Not of an enemy.
Not of death.
Of hope.
Because hope was more dangerous than grief.
Grief had rules.
Hope had none.
He crouched beside the car.
The little girl leaned closer to the window.
Her small hand rose.
She touched the glass.
Lorenzo lifted his hand.
Their palms met on opposite sides.
His eyes filled.
He whispered:
“Isabella?”
The child shook her head.
“Emma.”
Lorenzo froze.
The name struck him immediately.
Emma.
The maid's daughter.
Sophia's child.
The little girl who had walked across the memorial and whispered four impossible words.
Your daughter is still alive.
He looked back toward the church.
Sophia stood beside the entrance.
Her face was pale.
Lorenzo looked at her.
Then at the child.
Then at Lucia.
“What is going on?”
Lucia didn't answer.
“Mother.”
“She has two names.”
Lorenzo stared.
“What?”
Lucia opened the car door.
The little girl looked up.
“Come here.”
She reached for Lorenzo.
He hesitated.
Then he extended his arms.
The child climbed into them.
The instant her weight settled against his chest, something inside him broke.
She smelled like soap and lavender.
Her small fingers grabbed his jacket.
And she rested her cheek against his heart.
Lorenzo closed his eyes.
Eight months.
Eight months of nightmares.
Eight months of revenge.
Eight months of visiting an empty grave.
He had imagined holding his daughter a thousand times.
Never like this.
Never unexpectedly.
Never after believing she was dead.
He pressed his cheek against her hair.
“I'm your father.”
The little girl looked up.
“I know.”
Lorenzo's breath caught.
“Who told you?”
“Mommy.”
His heart stopped.
“Which mommy?”
The child frowned.
“Isabella.”
Lorenzo closed his eyes.
The name hurt.
It still hurt.
But now the pain had changed.
“Isabella told you about me?”
Emma nodded.
“She said Daddy was sad.”
Lorenzo couldn't speak.
“She said Daddy needed me.”
He looked at Lucia.
“What did you tell her?”
Lucia shook her head.
“Nothing.”
“Then how does she know me?”
“Because Isabella showed her photographs.”
Lorenzo looked at the child.
“You've seen my photograph?”
Emma nodded.
“You were always angry.”
He almost smiled.
“I suppose I was.”
“She said you weren't really angry.”
“What did she say?”
Emma touched his face.
“She said you were lonely.”
Lorenzo's eyes burned.
He looked away.
For years, people had called him cold.
Ruthless.
Unforgiving.
Isabella had called him lonely.
And somehow a three-year-old had inherited the ability to see through him.
Sophia approached slowly.
Lorenzo looked at her.
“Tell me everything.”
Sophia lowered her head.
“I will.”
“Now.”
She nodded.
“The child was born three days before the crash.”
“I know.”
“She was born under a false name.”
“Why?”
“To protect her.”
“From whom?”
“Your father.”
Lorenzo's face changed.
“My father?”
Sophia nodded.
“He knew the baby existed.”
“How?”
“Because Isabella told him.”
Lorenzo stared.
“Why would she tell him?”
“She didn't.”
Sophia swallowed.
“Someone else did.”
“Who?”
“Carlo.”
Lorenzo's eyes narrowed.
“My husband.”
“Carlo was working for Isabella.”
“I know.”
“He discovered your father had ordered someone to take the baby.”
“Why?”
“Because your father believed the child could be used to control you.”
Lorenzo's jaw tightened.
“He would never—”
Sophia looked at him.
“He would.”
Silence.
Lorenzo remembered his father.
The man who had raised him with discipline instead of affection.
The man who had taught him that weakness was something other people used against you.
The man who had told him family was everything.
Now Lorenzo wondered what family had meant to him.
Protection?
Possession?
Power?
Or all three?
“Why two names?” Lorenzo asked.
Sophia looked at Emma.
“The first name was the name on her original birth certificate.”
“What was it?”
Sophia hesitated.
“Lucia Isabella DeLuca.”
Lorenzo stared.
“Lucia?”
His mother stepped forward.
“That was my name.”
Lorenzo looked at her.
“Why?”
“Because Isabella wanted her to carry the name of the woman who disappeared to protect her.”
Lorenzo looked down at the child.
“And Emma?”
“That was her second name.”
“Who chose it?”
Sophia.
Lorenzo looked at her.
“Why?”
“Because Isabella said your daughter needed a name nobody would search for.”
Emma squeezed his jacket.
“Mommy called me Emma.”
Lorenzo nodded.
“She did.”
He touched the child's hair.
“Did she tell you why?”
Emma thought for a moment.
“She said Emma means brave.”
Lorenzo's throat tightened.
“She was right.”
They moved into the abandoned clinic.
Lucia locked the doors behind them.
Mara stood near the entrance.
Matteo watched from the corridor.
Sophia sat beside Lorenzo.
Emma remained in his arms.
He refused to put her down.
He was afraid that if he did, someone would take her again.
“Tell me about the night of the crash.”
Sophia took a breath.
“It started at the hospital.”
Lorenzo looked up.
“Isabella had been discharged.”
“I know.”
“She wasn't supposed to leave that night.”
“Why?”
“She received a warning.”
“From whom?”
“Carlo.”
Lorenzo's eyes narrowed.
“What warning?”
“That someone inside your organization had leaked the route.”
Lorenzo went still.
“My convoy?”
“Yes.”
“Who knew?”
“Seven people.”
“Names.”
Sophia shook her head.
“I don't know all of them.”
“Give me the ones you know.”
“Your chief of security.”
“Marco?”
“Yes.”
Lorenzo's face hardened.
“Who else?”
“The driver.”
“Dead.”
“Yes.”
“The hospital administrator.”
“Missing.”
“Who else?”
Sophia looked at him.
“Isabella.”
“She knew?”
“She suspected.”
“Why?”
“Because she had discovered the same person had accessed the birth records.”
Lorenzo looked at Lucia.
“What birth records?”
His mother answered.
“Your daughter's.”
Lorenzo's expression changed.
“Someone tried to erase her.”
“Yes.”
“From the hospital?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because if she officially existed, she could inherit.”
Lorenzo stared.
“Inherit what?”
Lucia said quietly:
“The DeLuca trust.”
The room went silent.
Lorenzo looked at his mother.
“What trust?”
Lucia sat down.
“Your grandfather created it.”
“My grandfather?”
“Yes.”
“Why have I never heard of it?”
“Because your father hid it.”
“What does it contain?”
“Control of the family's legitimate assets.”
Lorenzo's face hardened.
“How much?”
“Enough to make your father terrified.”
“Why?”
“Because the trust doesn't belong to the DeLuca family.”
He frowned.
“Then who owns it?”
Lucia looked at Emma.
“Your daughter.”
Lorenzo stared.
“That's why they wanted her dead.”
Lucia nodded.
“Not because she was a child.”
“Because she was an heir.”
“Yes.”
Emma suddenly reached into her dress.
She pulled out something.
A small silver chain.
Lorenzo stared.
Another swallow.
But this one was tiny.
A child's pendant.
His hands trembled.
“Where did you get that?”
Emma smiled.
“Mommy gave it to me.”
“Which mommy?”
“Isabella.”
Lorenzo touched it.
The pendant opened.
Inside was a photograph.
Lorenzo.
Isabella.
And a newborn baby.
His daughter.
The photograph had been taken in the hospital.
Three days after the birth.
Lorenzo stared at the image.
His eyes filled.
He had never seen it.
He had never known it existed.
On the back was a handwritten sentence.
He recognized the handwriting immediately.
Isabella.
If Lorenzo ever finds her, tell him I was never trying to keep his daughter from him. I was trying to keep his daughter alive.
Lorenzo read it twice.
Then a third time.
His fingers tightened around the photograph.
“Why didn't she come back?”
Sophia looked down.
“Because she knew someone inside your family was watching.”
“Who?”
“She didn't know.”
“Then why stay away?”
“Because the watcher knew where you were.”
Lorenzo looked up.
“What does that mean?”
Sophia hesitated.
“It means the person who ordered the crash was close to you.”
“How close?”
Sophia's voice became barely audible.
“Closer than Marco.”
Lorenzo's blood ran cold.
“Who?”
She didn't answer.
“Tell me.”
Sophia looked toward Lucia.
Lucia nodded.
Sophia whispered:
“Your brother.”
Lorenzo stared.
“I don't have a brother.”
Lucia closed her eyes.
“You did.”
Lorenzo's face went blank.
“Did?”
“He died before you were born.”
“Then why would Sophia say—”
“Because he didn't die.”
The room seemed to lose all sound.
Lorenzo looked at his mother.
“Who is he?”
Lucia's lips trembled.
“Adrian.”
Lorenzo repeated the name.
“Adrian DeLuca.”
“He was your father's first son.”
“Why have I never heard of him?”
“Because your father erased him.”
“Why?”
Lucia looked at Emma.
“Because Adrian was the one person who knew where the original trust documents were hidden.”
Lorenzo stood.
“And he ordered the crash?”
Lucia shook her head.
“No.”
“Then who?”
Lucia looked at him.
“That's what I was trying to tell you.”
A noise came from the hallway.
Everyone froze.
Footsteps.
Slow.
Heavy.
Approaching the clinic room.
Lorenzo immediately moved Emma behind him.
Mara drew her weapon.
Matteo reached for the lights.
Sophia whispered:
“Someone followed us.”
The footsteps stopped outside the door.
Then came three knocks.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
Lorenzo raised his gun.
“Who is it?”
A man's voice answered.
“Your brother.”
Lorenzo froze.
The door handle moved.
Slowly.
The lock clicked.
And a man stepped into the room.
He was taller than Lorenzo.
Older.
A thin scar ran from his left temple to his jaw.
His eyes were the same dark brown as their father's.
He looked at Lorenzo.
Then at Emma.
Then smiled.
“You found her.”
Lorenzo raised his gun.
“You're Adrian.”
“Yes.”
“You ordered the crash.”
Adrian's smile disappeared.
“No.”
“Then who did?”
Adrian looked at Lucia.
She looked away.
Then he said the words that made everyone in the room go still.
“The woman who ordered the crash…”
He paused.
“…was Isabella.”
Lorenzo's finger tightened on the trigger.
Emma looked up at him.
And for the first time since he had found his daughter, Lorenzo felt something other than joy.
He felt fear.
Because if Adrian was telling the truth—
then the woman he had spent eight months mourning had not been a victim.
She had been the architect.
And somewhere in New York, Isabella Conti was still alive.
Watching.
May you like
Waiting.
And protecting a secret that could destroy the entire DeLuca family.
