Chapter 5 — The Drawing With Two Faces
Chapter 5 — The Drawing With Two Faces
The drawing was still on the windowsill when I returned upstairs.
I had spent three years looking at photographs of Emma.
I had memorized her smile.
Her favorite sweater.
The way she held crayons.
The little crease that appeared between her eyebrows whenever she concentrated.
But I had never understood her drawings.
Not until that morning.
Because the picture on the windowsill was different.
There were two fathers.
One had a face.
One did not.
And underneath them, in uneven green crayon, Emma had written four words.
ONE IS LYING TO ME.
I stared at the paper.
Rachel stood beside me.
“She didn't write that.”
I looked at her.
“What?”
“She can write her name. Some simple words. But not that sentence.”
“Then who did?”
Rachel shook her head.
“I don't know.”
I turned the paper over.
Nothing.
No signature.
No date.
No explanation.
Just the drawing.
Two men.
One with my face.
One without.
Between them stood Emma.
And above all three figures was a black cloud.
I felt a chill move down my spine.
“Where did you find this?”
“On the windowsill.”
“When?”
“Five minutes before you arrived.”
“Did you see anyone?”
“No.”
“Did Emma wake up?”
Rachel hesitated.
“No.”
I looked at my daughter.
She was still asleep.
Her small body curled beneath the blanket.
Mr. Buttons rested against her chest.
I walked toward the bed.
Rachel stopped me.
“Don't wake her.”
“I won't.”
I sat on the edge.
For a moment, I simply watched her breathe.
Then I looked back at the drawing.
“One is lying to me.”
Rachel whispered:
“Maybe she's talking about you.”
The words hurt.
But I didn't argue.
“Maybe.”
Rachel folded her arms.
“You lied to her before she was old enough to understand what a lie was.”
“I know.”
“You told me disappearing was necessary.”
“I believed it was.”
“You told yourself that.”
“Yes.”
Rachel looked away.
I understood why she hated me.
I had left her alone with a child and a story she couldn't explain.
Then I looked at Emma again.
“What if she's not talking about me?”
Rachel frowned.
“Who else?”
I pointed at the faceless man.
“What if she's seen him?”
Rachel's expression changed.
“Where?”
“I don't know.”
“You think someone has been approaching her?”
“I think someone wants us to believe that.”
Rachel stared at the drawing.
“That's worse.”
“Yes.”
She sat down beside me.
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then she whispered:
“Luca.”
“What?”
“What if the man with the face isn't you?”
I looked at her.
“What?”
“The drawing says one of them is lying.”
She pointed.
“This man has your face.”
“Yes.”
“And this one doesn't.”
“Yes.”
“So maybe she knows who you are.”
I stared at the picture.
“And she doesn't know who the other man is.”
Rachel's voice dropped.
“Or maybe she knows exactly who he is.”
At 7:12 a.m., Emma woke up.
The first thing she said was:
“Where's Daddy?”
My chest tightened.
Rachel looked at me.
I smiled.
“I'm here.”
Emma sat up.
Her eyes widened.
“You stayed.”
“Yes.”
“You promised.”
“I did.”
She smiled.
A small smile.
But real.
Then she saw the drawing.
Her expression changed.
She climbed out of bed.
“That's mine.”
I picked it up.
“Did you draw this?”
She nodded.
“Yesterday.”
“Where?”
“At school.”
Rachel frowned.
“You brought it home yesterday?”
“No.”
Emma pointed at the paper.
“Someone gave it back.”
“Who?”
She shrugged.
“A man.”
My heart stopped.
“What man?”
Emma looked at me.
“The man who knows Daddy.”
Rachel went pale.
I crouched beside her.
“Emma, listen to me.”
She nodded.
“Did the man talk to you?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“At school.”
“Outside?”
“Yes.”
“Did he come inside?”
“No.”
“Did your teacher see him?”
Emma shook her head.
“He waited by the fence.”
I looked at Rachel.
Her face had gone white.
“What did he say?”
Emma thought.
“He asked me if my daddy had a scar.”
My heart froze.
“What did you tell him?”
“I said yes.”
Rachel covered her mouth.
I forced myself to remain calm.
“Did he ask anything else?”
Emma nodded.
“He asked if Daddy was sick.”
I felt my pulse rise.
“What did you say?”
“I said you were.”
Rachel stared at me.
Emma continued.
“He said he was sorry.”
I swallowed.
“What else?”
“He gave me the picture.”
I looked at the drawing.
“Did he draw the face?”
Emma nodded.
“He said Daddy needed a face.”
My blood ran cold.
“What did he look like?”
Emma pointed toward the photograph on the dresser.
A photograph of Matteo.
“That man.”
I stared.
“Matteo?”
Emma nodded.
“He looks like him.”
Rachel whispered:
“That's impossible.”
I looked at her.
“Why?”
“Because Matteo was inside the warehouse.”
“He was shot.”
“He was taken to the hospital.”
“I know.”
“And he never left.”
I looked at the drawing.
“Then someone looks like him.”
Rachel's face changed.
“Luca.”
“What?”
“There are two Bellini brothers.”
I frowned.
“What are you talking about?”
She stared at me.
“Matteo told you he was your older brother.”
“Yes.”
“But your mother told me once…”
Rachel stopped.
“What?”
“She said there were three children.”
The room went silent.
I stared at her.
“What?”
Rachel looked terrified.
“She told me there were three.”
“Who?”
“I don't know.”
“You're sure?”
“She was pregnant when I first met her.”
My heart began pounding.
“You met my mother?”
Rachel nodded slowly.
“When?”
“After you disappeared.”
“Why?”
“She came to me.”
I stared.
“You never told me.”
“I didn't know if I should.”
“What did she say?”
Rachel looked at Emma.
“She asked me to protect you.”
“From what?”
“From your family.”
I stood.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because I didn't trust you.”
The words were honest.
And painful.
“Do you trust me now?”
Rachel looked at me.
“I don't know.”
I nodded.
“That makes two of us.”
At 9:30 a.m., Marco arrived.
He had brought a forensic specialist.
The drawing was placed inside a clear evidence sleeve.
“Who touched it?”
I asked.
“Emma.”
“Anyone else?”
“Rachel.”
“And me.”
Marco nodded.
“We'll check for prints.”
The specialist photographed the paper.
Then scanned the handwriting.
“There's something strange.”
I looked at him.
“What?”
“The ink.”
“Crayon.”
He shook his head.
“The writing isn't all crayon.”
He pointed toward the words.
ONE IS LYING TO ME.
“The letters are mixed.”
“Mixed how?”
“Some are pencil. Some are crayon.”
I frowned.
“Could Emma have written them at different times?”
“Possibly.”
“Or?”
He looked at me.
“Someone added them later.”
Rachel stepped forward.
“Can you tell when?”
“Not precisely.”
“Can you tell who wrote them?”
“Not yet.”
He turned the paper over.
“There may be something else.”
He held it beneath a special light.
A faint mark appeared.
A symbol.
Three interlocking circles.
I stared.
I had seen it before.
On my father's old signet ring.
“What is that?”
Marco looked at me.
“Your family symbol.”
I nodded.
“That's not the Bellini crest.”
“No.”
“Then what is it?”
Marco looked uncomfortable.
“I don't know.”
I turned to him.
“You're lying.”
He sighed.
“It's the symbol of the old Bellini foundation.”
“The foundation?”
“It existed before your father.”
“How old?”
“Over seventy years.”
“Why have I never heard of it?”
“Because your father erased it.”
I stared at him.
“Why?”
Marco lowered his voice.
“Because it wasn't a charity.”
That afternoon, we drove to a private archive outside the city.
No signs.
No records.
Nothing that could identify it as a Bellini property.
Marco unlocked the door.
Inside were shelves.
Hundreds.
Maybe thousands of files.
My father had kept everything.
Birth certificates.
Bank records.
Medical records.
Photographs.
Letters.
I walked toward the oldest section.
A label read:
BELLINI FAMILY — 1952–1981
I pulled the first box.
Inside was a photograph.
My grandfather.
My grandmother.
My father.
And three children.
I froze.
Three.
The youngest was a girl.
Dark hair.
Same eyes as my mother.
I turned the photograph over.
Three names were written in my grandmother's handwriting.
Matteo.
Luca.
Isabella.
I stared.
Isabella.
My mother's name.
I turned toward Marco.
“She was a child.”
“Yes.”
“She wasn't my mother's sister.”
“No.”
“She was my mother.”
Marco nodded.
I looked at the photograph again.
My mother had been one of three children.
Not my father's wife.
Not simply the woman who married into the Bellini family.
She was a Bellini.
And that meant something I didn't want to consider.
My mother's entire life had been connected to the empire.
Not from the outside.
From the beginning.
I opened another file.
Inside was a birth record.
Isabella Bellini.
Then another.
Matteo Bellini.
Then mine.
Luca Bellini.
I stared.
Three children.
One family.
One secret.
Then I found a fourth document.
A birth certificate with the name blacked out.
Only the date remained.
Same year.
Same month.
Two days after Matteo.
My heart stopped.
“Marco.”
He came over.
“What?”
I showed him.
His expression changed.
“This wasn't in the family records.”
“What is it?”
He shook his head.
“I don't know.”
I looked at the date.
Then at the photograph.
Three children.
But the documents suggested four.
“Find the original.”
Marco nodded.
He made a call.
Five minutes later, someone brought another box.
I opened it.
Inside was a photograph of four infants.
I stared.
Four.
Not three.
Four babies.
My mother.
Matteo.
Me.
And another child.
A boy.
His face had been scratched out.
I touched the photograph.
“Who is he?”
Nobody answered.
Then I heard a voice behind me.
“You know who he is.”
I turned.
Rachel stood in the doorway.
Her face was pale.
“What are you doing here?”
She held something in her hand.
A small envelope.
“Your mother gave me this.”
“When?”
“Three years ago.”
I stared at her.
“Why now?”
“Because she told me not to open it until you came back.”
My heart began pounding.
Rachel walked toward me.
She handed me the envelope.
My name was written across the front.
In my mother's handwriting.
I opened it.
Inside was a single photograph.
A man standing beside a young Isabella.
The man looked almost exactly like me.
But older.
Same eyes.
Same jaw.
Same scar.
I turned the photograph over.
Four words.
Your brother is alive.
I looked at Rachel.
“Matteo?”
She shook her head.
“No.”
My stomach dropped.
“Then who?”
Rachel whispered:
“The boy your father erased.”
Silence.
I looked again at the photograph.
The man's face was familiar.
Too familiar.
Then I noticed something on his left hand.
A silver ring.
The Bellini family ring.
The same ring my father had worn.
The same ring Matteo had once worn.
The same ring I had been given when I was twenty-one.
I stared at it.
Then I remembered Emma's words.
The man who knows Daddy.
A man who looked like Matteo.
A man who knew my name.
A man who knew Emma.
A man who had been watching her.
My blood ran cold.
“Marco.”
He looked at me.
“Get everyone out.”
“Why?”
“Because we aren't looking for the man behind the drawings anymore.”
I held up the photograph.
“We've found him.”
Marco looked at the image.
His face went pale.
“Luca…”
“What?”
He whispered:
“That man isn't your brother.”
“Then who is he?”
Marco looked at me.
“Your uncle.”
I stared.
“My father had a brother?”
Marco nodded.
“Older.”
“How old?”
“Old enough to have been erased.”
“Why?”
Marco swallowed.
“Because he was supposed to inherit everything.”
I looked at the photograph again.
The man had my face.
My mother's eyes.
My father's ring.
And a smile that made my stomach twist.
Then my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
A man's voice spoke.
“Hello, nephew.”
I froze.
“You have my daughter.”
A soft laugh.
“No.”
“Then who?”
“I have something more valuable.”
“What?”
“You.”
My grip tightened around the phone.
“What do you want?”
“Your heart.”
I stopped breathing.
“What?”
“You're sick, Luca.”
My blood ran cold.
“And I know exactly how long you have left.”
The call ended.
I stared at the phone.
Rachel stepped closer.
“What did he say?”
I looked at her.
“He knows about my heart.”
Marco's expression hardened.
“Then this isn't about money.”
“No.”
I looked toward Emma's drawing.
Two fathers.
One face.
One faceless.
And suddenly I understood what the second figure meant.
The faceless man wasn't someone Emma had never seen.
He was someone she had seen—
but had never been allowed to recognize.
My uncle had been watching her.
For how long, I didn't know.
But one thing was certain.
He hadn't kidnapped Emma to hurt me.
He had used her to bring me back into the family.
And now that I had returned—
he intended to finish what my father had started.
Except this time, there would be no funeral.
No disappearance.
No convenient lie.
Only the truth.
And somewhere in New York, a man who shared my blood was waiting for me to come looking.
He had one advantage.
He knew my family better than I did.
But I had something he didn't.
A daughter.
A woman who had every reason to hate me but had stayed.
And a brother who had nearly died trying to expose the truth.
For the first time, I wasn't fighting for the Bellini name.
May you like
I was fighting to destroy it.
And the first person I needed to find was the man who knew exactly where Emma slept.
