Chapter 3 — Isabella’s Last Photograph
Chapter 3 — Isabella’s Last Photograph
The photograph was only six inches wide.
But by the time Lorenzo finished looking at it, he had stopped breathing.
It showed Isabella standing beneath an old stone archway, wearing a cream-colored coat and holding a newborn baby against her chest.
Her hair was loose.
Her face was tired.
But she was smiling.
Not the polite smile she gave at charity dinners.
Not the careful smile she wore around Lorenzo's family.
A real smile.
The kind Lorenzo had spent eight months trying to remember.
And in her arms was Giulia.
Alive.
Three days old.
Wrapped in the pale pink blanket Lorenzo had chosen himself.
He stared at the photograph.
Then at the date.
October 17.
The day after Giulia's birth.
The day before the crash.
Lorenzo's fingers tightened around the edges.
Rico stood across the desk.
“That's definitely her.”
“Yes.”
“And the baby?”
Lorenzo didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
The tiny face was unmistakable.
His daughter.
Alive.
His daughter had been alive less than twenty-four hours before someone tried to convince him she was dead.
But there was something else.
Something wrong.
Lorenzo leaned closer.
“Look at her neck.”
Rico frowned.
“What?”
“The necklace.”
Rico looked.
Isabella wasn't wearing the silver swallow necklace.
The necklace recovered from the crash.
The necklace Lorenzo had been told was the strongest confirmation that the burned body belonged to her.
It wasn't around her neck in the photograph.
Lorenzo's voice became dangerously quiet.
“She wasn't wearing it.”
Rico nodded.
“So?”
“So the necklace wasn't on her when this photograph was taken.”
“Maybe she put it on later.”
“No.”
Lorenzo pointed toward Isabella's wrist.
“She was wearing this bracelet.”
Rico leaned closer.
A thin gold bracelet.
Isabella had worn it every day since their engagement.
Lorenzo remembered it.
She had refused to remove it even during surgery.
But in the photograph—
the bracelet was missing.
His eyes narrowed.
“That's impossible.”
“Why?”
“Because the bracelet was found in the wreck.”
Rico's face changed.
“What?”
“Yes.”
Lorenzo stood.
“The investigators said the bracelet was one of the items recovered from the driver's side.”
Rico stared at him.
“Then someone took it off her.”
“Exactly.”
“And the necklace?”
“Someone put it on her.”
Silence.
The room suddenly felt colder.
Lorenzo placed the photograph on the table.
“The body wasn't Isabella.”
Rico didn't move.
“You're sure?”
“No.”
Lorenzo looked at him.
“But I'm getting close.”
The photograph had come from Gabriel's house.
That meant Gabriel had kept it.
Why?
Lorenzo couldn't stop thinking about that question.
He turned the photograph over.
Nothing.
No writing.
No date.
No location.
Then Rico noticed something.
“There's something on the corner.”
Lorenzo looked.
A tiny white mark.
Almost invisible.
Three letters.
S.R.C.
Lorenzo frowned.
“Saint Raphael's Center.”
The same facility listed in the deleted transfer records.
Rico immediately reached for his phone.
“I'll send someone.”
“No.”
Lorenzo grabbed his coat.
“I'll go.”
“Boss, if Gabriel used that place—”
“Then I want to see it myself.”
Saint Raphael's Pediatric Center had been abandoned for six years.
The gates were chained.
Windows were boarded.
The old sign had been removed.
But the building remained.
A gray skeleton surrounded by weeds.
Lorenzo stood outside.
“This place is supposed to be empty.”
Rico looked at his security team.
“It is.”
“Then why is the electricity on?”
Everyone turned.
A faint yellow light glowed behind an upstairs window.
Lorenzo walked toward the entrance.
Two men tried to stop him.
“Boss—”
“Stay outside.”
“But—”
“If I'm not back in thirty minutes, burn the place down.”
Rico stared.
Lorenzo walked inside.
The hallway smelled like mold.
Old disinfectant.
Dust.
The past.
He walked slowly.
Every step echoed.
Then he saw something on the wall.
A child's drawing.
Three figures.
A mother.
A father.
A baby.
Underneath, written in purple crayon:
MY FAMILY.
Lorenzo stopped.
His chest tightened.
He touched the paper.
Fresh.
The crayon was recent.
Someone had been here.
Someone with a child.
His daughter.
He kept walking.
At the end of the corridor was a nursery.
The door was open.
Inside stood an empty crib.
A pink blanket lay across it.
Lorenzo froze.
He knew that blanket.
He had bought it the morning Giulia was born.
He had written his daughter's initials on the corner.
G.D.
He touched it.
Still warm.
Someone had been holding it.
Recently.
His breathing changed.
“Giulia.”
A noise came from behind him.
He turned.
A door slammed.
Lorenzo ran.
The corridor was empty.
He heard footsteps upstairs.
He chased them.
A shadow disappeared around the corner.
“Stop!”
The footsteps continued.
Lorenzo reached the stairwell.
Nothing.
Then he saw a photograph on the floor.
He picked it up.
Isabella.
Holding Giulia.
Standing in the same nursery.
On the back:
She knows.
Lorenzo's heart raced.
Knows what?
He returned downstairs.
There was a locked office.
He kicked the door open.
Inside were files.
Hundreds.
Most had been destroyed.
Some remained.
He searched.
Birth records.
Transfer records.
Medical reports.
Then he found a folder.
PATIENT: BABY GIRL CONTI
Lorenzo opened it.
The first page was dated October 17.
Weight: 3.1 kilograms.
Condition: stable.
Mother: Isabella Conti.
Then another line:
Biological father: Lorenzo DeLuca.
Lorenzo stared.
His hands shook.
At least one record confirmed it.
Giulia was his daughter.
He turned the page.
The next report was different.
October 18.
Emergency transfer requested.
Mother states father must not be informed.
Lorenzo's heart sank.
There was a signature.
Isabella's.
But below it was another signature.
A doctor.
Dr. Elena Moretti.
Then another.
Gabriel DeLuca.
Lorenzo stared at his brother's name.
Again.
Again.
Always Gabriel.
He turned another page.
The transfer destination had been handwritten.
Safe House 17.
No address.
Only a telephone number.
Lorenzo dialed it.
Disconnected.
He tried again.
Nothing.
Then a note fell from the folder.
He picked it up.
Isabella's handwriting.
If Lorenzo finds this, tell him I had no choice.
Lorenzo closed his eyes.
“No choice?”
He crumpled the paper.
“You always had a choice.”
A noise came from the hallway.
Lorenzo drew his gun.
“Who's there?”
No answer.
He moved toward the door.
A woman stepped into view.
Lorenzo recognized her.
The same woman who had been shot in the archive.
She was pale.
A bandage wrapped around her shoulder.
“You shouldn't be here.”
Lorenzo lowered his gun slightly.
“You.”
She looked at the files.
“You found them.”
“Who are you?”
“My name is Clara.”
“Clara what?”
“Clara Bellini.”
Lorenzo's eyes narrowed.
“Matteo's daughter.”
“Yes.”
“Your father is alive.”
“Yes.”
“Where is he?”
“I don't know.”
“Why are you helping me?”
Clara looked away.
“Because Isabella saved my life.”
“When?”
“Years ago.”
“How?”
“She discovered what my father was doing.”
Lorenzo's jaw tightened.
“What was he doing?”
Clara hesitated.
“Selling children.”
Lorenzo went still.
“What?”
“Not children like you think.”
“Explain.”
“Families paid him to disappear heirs.”
Lorenzo's blood ran cold.
“Giulia?”
Clara shook her head.
“Your daughter was different.”
“Why?”
“She was valuable.”
“To whom?”
Clara looked at him.
“Everyone.”
Lorenzo stepped closer.
“Tell me what happened.”
Clara swallowed.
“Isabella discovered that someone inside your family had arranged the crash.”
“Gabriel.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because Gabriel believed your daughter was the key to controlling the DeLuca empire.”
Lorenzo stared.
“She's a baby.”
“Not according to the people who built the system.”
“What system?”
“The inheritance system.”
Clara pointed toward the files.
“Your father didn't leave everything to you.”
Lorenzo frowned.
“What are you talking about?”
“Your father's will had a condition.”
“Which was?”
“The DeLuca heir had to have a living child.”
Lorenzo froze.
“Why?”
“Because the empire was supposed to pass to the next generation.”
He stared.
“But I'm the boss.”
“Yes.”
“Then why would Gabriel care about my daughter?”
“Because if Giulia died…”
Clara paused.
“…Gabriel would become the next legal successor.”
Lorenzo understood.
Money.
Power.
Control.
Gabriel didn't need Lorenzo dead immediately.
He needed Giulia dead.
And Isabella had discovered it.
“So he arranged the crash.”
Clara nodded.
“But the plan failed.”
“Because Isabella escaped.”
“Yes.”
“With my daughter.”
“Yes.”
“Then who died?”
Clara's eyes filled with tears.
“The woman they put in Isabella's place.”
Lorenzo froze.
“Who?”
“I don't know.”
“But someone knew.”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
Clara looked at the photograph.
“Your brother.”
Lorenzo walked back to the nursery.
He stood beside the empty crib.
For the first time, he allowed himself to imagine it.
Isabella running.
Holding their daughter.
Terrified.
Trying to save her.
Then someone else being placed in the wreck.
Someone wearing Isabella's necklace.
Someone whose identity was deliberately erased.
He closed his eyes.
Then remembered something.
The funeral.
The coffin.
The investigators.
The priest.
Gabriel.
His brother had stood beside him.
And Gabriel had said:
“She looks peaceful.”
Lorenzo had never questioned it.
But now he understood.
Gabriel had never seen the body.
Nobody had.
Because there had been no body to see.
Rico called.
“Boss.”
“Talk.”
“We found the original hospital archive.”
“Where?”
“Underground storage.”
“And?”
“There are three infant records.”
Lorenzo stopped.
“Three?”
“Yes.”
“Read them.”
“One is Giulia.”
“Second?”
“An unidentified baby girl.”
“And the third?”
Silence.
“Rico.”
“The third record has no name.”
“What's the date?”
“Same day.”
“Mother?”
“Isabella Conti.”
Lorenzo's blood went cold.
“Father?”
Rico hesitated.
“Unknown.”
Lorenzo stared into the empty nursery.
“Send me the file.”
A photograph arrived.
Lorenzo opened it.
The image showed a newborn.
Another baby girl.
Different blanket.
Different bracelet.
But on the baby's wrist was a tiny silver swallow.
Lorenzo stared.
“That's not my daughter.”
“No.”
“Then whose is she?”
“We don't know.”
Lorenzo looked at the photograph again.
Something about the baby's face seemed familiar.
Not to him.
To Isabella.
He remembered her looking at the baby in the nursery.
A memory from the hospital.
Isabella had been crying.
He had thought she was overwhelmed.
Now he remembered what she had whispered.
“I'm sorry, sweetheart.”
He had assumed she was talking to Giulia.
Maybe she wasn't.
Maybe she had been talking to another child.
Lorenzo returned to the mansion before dawn.
Sophia was waiting.
Emma slept upstairs.
Lorenzo entered the kitchen.
“You lied to me.”
Sophia's face tightened.
“I didn't.”
“You knew about the second baby.”
Sophia looked away.
“Who told you?”
“Isabella.”
Sophia froze.
Lorenzo saw it.
“You've spoken to her.”
“No.”
“Don't lie.”
“I haven't.”
“You know where she is.”
Sophia shook her head.
“I know where she was.”
“When?”
“The night she left.”
“Where?”
Sophia whispered:
“The church.”
“Which church?”
“Saint Michael's.”
“Why?”
“She told me to meet her there.”
“What happened?”
“She gave me something.”
“What?”
Sophia reached into a drawer.
She pulled out a small envelope.
Lorenzo stared.
“Why didn't you give me this?”
“Because Isabella told me not to.”
“What's inside?”
Sophia shook her head.
“I never opened it.”
Lorenzo took it.
His name was written across the front.
Lorenzo.
His fingers trembled.
He opened it.
Inside was a photograph.
Isabella.
Holding Giulia.
But standing beside her was another baby.
Two newborns.
Two daughters.
And behind them stood a woman Lorenzo had never seen.
The woman was holding a third child.
Lorenzo stared.
On the back Isabella had written:
You were never supposed to know about the second baby.
Then beneath it:
Because the second baby is yours too.
Lorenzo's blood froze.
Twins.
Giulia had a twin.
And suddenly the empty coffin made sense.
The hospital records.
The hidden facility.
The House of Swallows.
The strange bracelet.
Everything.
But then he saw the final sentence.
His heart stopped.
If they tell you both children died, believe them.
Lorenzo read it twice.
Then a third time.
Why would Isabella tell him to believe a lie?
Unless she was protecting someone.
He turned the photograph over.
A second line appeared beneath the first.
The daughter you buried is not Giulia.
Lorenzo stopped breathing.
He looked toward the stairs.
Emma's voice echoed faintly from above.
“Mommy said Daddy would find me.”
Lorenzo looked at the photograph.
Two babies.
One alive.
One missing.
One buried.
He whispered:
“Then whose child did I bury?”
The answer came from the doorway.
Sophia.
Her face was devastated.
She whispered:
“Your daughter.”
Lorenzo turned.
“Which one?”
Sophia couldn't speak.
Then Emma appeared on the stairs.
Still wearing her little navy dress.
She looked at Lorenzo.
And smiled.
“Daddy.”
Lorenzo's blood ran cold.
Emma had never called him that before tonight.
He stared at the child.
Then at Sophia.
Then back at Emma.
The little girl held out her stuffed rabbit.
Tucked inside its torn seam was a tiny photograph.
Lorenzo took it.
It showed Isabella.
Standing beside two newborn babies.
And written across the bottom in Isabella's handwriting were six words:
One is yours. One is not.
Lorenzo looked at Emma.
For the first time, he wondered why the housemaid's three-year-old daughter knew things no three-year-old should know.
And why Isabella had trusted her.
Then Emma whispered:
“Daddy…”
Lorenzo crouched.
“What?”
She pointed toward the window.
“The lady is coming back.”
Lorenzo turned.
Across the street stood a woman in a white coat.
Brown hair.
A silver swallow necklace.
She was watching the house.
Watching him.
Then she lifted one hand.
And Lorenzo knew, without needing to see her face, that the nightmare he had spent eight months burying had just returned.
The woman turned away.
But before she disappeared into the darkness, Lorenzo saw her face.
It was Isabella.
May you like
Alive.
And she was carrying a baby.
