Chapter 4 - THE DEAD WOMAN’S COMPANY
I did not sleep after Julian’s call.
At four in the morning, the rain stopped over Florence, but water continued dripping from the hotel roof onto the narrow balcony outside our room.
Each drop struck the metal railing with the regularity of a clock.
Your mother’s secrets belong to us.
The message remained on my screen.
The photograph of Julian had been taken from less than thirty feet away. Whoever sent it had been standing close enough to hear him breathe.
I forwarded the image to Daniel, Mara, and the Italian police officer assigned to the threatening flowers.
Daniel called within two minutes.
“Do not respond.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“Do not delete anything either.”
“Julian said someone replaced his genetic records.”
“We need to separate what he knows from what he believes.”
“He also said a company connected to the villa is registered under my mother’s maiden name.”
Silence.
Daniel finally asked, “What was her full name?”
“Sofia Emilia Moretti.”
“And when did she die?”
“Six years ago.”
“Where?”
“Boston.”
“Cause?”
“Cancer.”
The answer came automatically.
It had been the truth repeated in hospital corridors, funeral arrangements, sympathy cards, and the obituary Adrian’s family had placed in the newspaper.
Pancreatic cancer.
Late diagnosis.
Four months from confirmation to death.
Except as I spoke the words, I remembered something I had never questioned.
My mother had refused an autopsy.
Not that an autopsy was unusual after terminal illness, but she had insisted on immediate cremation.
She had also refused to let me visit during her final week.
At the time, the nurses said infection precautions made visitors difficult.
Adrian had handled the hospital.
Adrian had spoken to the doctors.
Adrian had arranged the cremation.
A pressure built behind my ribs.
“Daniel.”
“Yes?”
“I never saw my mother after she died.”
He did not answer immediately.
“I saw her before,” I said quickly. “I visited her almost every day. But during the final week, Adrian said she was unconscious and the hospital advised me not to bring the children.”
“Did you speak directly to the hospital?”
“I spoke to a nurse.”
“Do you remember her name?”
“No.”
“Did you identify the body before cremation?”
“No.”
“Elena, listen carefully. That does not mean your mother is alive.”
“I know.”
“It means we verify the records before reaching conclusions.”
“I know.”
But once doubt entered, it contaminated every memory.
My mother had been born in a village outside Florence.
She immigrated to the United States at nineteen and built a quiet life sewing wedding dresses, repairing evening gowns, and refusing financial help even after I married into wealth.
She disliked Adrian from the first time they met.
Not openly.
My mother rarely insulted anyone directly.
Instead, she watched him.
When he spoke, she watched his hands.
When he smiled, she watched his eyes.
Two weeks before her diagnosis, she had called me late at night.
“Elena,” she said, “do you know where Adrian keeps your original marriage documents?”
I laughed because the question seemed strange.
“In a safe, I think.”
“You should know.”
“Why?”
“Because a woman should know where her own name is being used.”
At the time, I assumed she was being old-fashioned.
Now, in a hotel room under an assumed reservation, the warning felt entirely different.
Daniel’s voice pulled me back.
“Do you know whether your mother owned property in Italy?”
“No.”
“Bank accounts?”
“She had almost nothing.”
“Do you have access to her estate documents?”
“Adrian handled probate.”
Another silence.
This one carried judgment, though Daniel was kind enough not to voice it.
I had allowed Adrian to handle everything.
The finances.
The legal documents.
The doctors.
The funeral.
My trust had made my life easier until the day I discovered it had been the instrument used against me.
“I want the probate file,” I said.
“I’ll request it.”
“I also want the hospital records.”
“We’ll get them.”
“What about Julian?”
“We are trying to locate him.”
“Adrian might know where he is.”
“Adrian is currently refusing calls from everyone except his criminal defense attorney.”
I looked toward the bedroom.
Noah and Lily were asleep.
“What happened at the hospital after Julian called?”
“Celeste’s pregnancy stabilized. The baby survived.”
“And Julian?”
“He left before security could question him.”
“Was he followed?”
“We don’t know.”
I stared again at the photograph.
A reflection was visible in the hospital glass behind Julian.
Not a face.
A shape.
A man in a dark coat holding the camera.
Behind him, a black sedan.
The license plate was blurred by rain.
But the rear window displayed a small gold emblem.
I enlarged the image.
My heart stopped.
“What is it?” Daniel asked.
“The car.”
“What about it?”
“It belongs to the Blackwood family office.”
“How do you know?”
“The gold crest on the rear window. Conrad puts it on every executive vehicle.”
Daniel asked me to send a close crop.
I did.
Thirty seconds later, he said, “That proves access, not identity.”
“It proves someone connected to Conrad followed Julian.”
“Possibly.”
“You still refuse to say anything plainly.”
“I say things plainly when they are facts.”
“Then give me a fact.”
Daniel’s voice hardened.
“Someone stole money from your children, created documents bearing your forged signature, connected those transactions to an identity belonging to your deceased mother, threatened you in a foreign country, and photographed Julian during a private call. Those are facts.”
The fear inside me sharpened into anger.
“What do we do?”
“We stop reacting.”
“How?”
“We make them react.”
At seven that morning, Daniel filed a supplemental motion in court requesting disclosure of every Blackwood family-office transaction containing the names Sofia Moretti, Bellmere, Celeste Laurent, Adrian Blackwood, Julian Blackwood, Noah Blackwood, or Lily Blackwood.
At eight, Mara contacted a financial crimes investigator she trusted in Paris.
At nine, I called my mother’s former landlord.
Mrs. Bellini was eighty-four and answered in Italian.
She remembered me immediately.
“Elena? Sofia’s girl?”
“Yes.”
“You sound like your mother.”
The words nearly broke me.
“I need to ask about some documents she may have left behind.”
Mrs. Bellini became quiet.
“What documents?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then why are you asking?”
“Because someone used her name to register a company.”
I heard her breathing change.
“Where are you?”
“Florence.”
“Do not say that on the telephone.”
I stood.
“Mrs. Bellini?”
“You must come to me.”
“Why?”
“Because your mother made me promise something.”
The room seemed to narrow around me.
“What did she make you promise?”
“That if a Blackwood ever took you to Italy, I was to give you the key.”
“What key?”
She would not answer.
Her address was outside Lucca, nearly ninety minutes from Florence.
Daniel wanted me to wait for local security.
I refused.
By ten thirty, I was in a hired car with Noah and Lily, accompanied by an Italian attorney named Paolo Ricci and a retired police officer Daniel had arranged as protection.
Noah watched the countryside pass.
“Are we looking for Grandma’s secret?”
I glanced at Paolo.
He politely looked out the other window.
“We’re looking for something she left.”
“Why didn’t she give it to you?”
“I don’t know.”
Lily hugged the stuffed rabbit she had carried from home.
“Maybe it’s treasure.”
Noah shook his head.
“Treasure gets people killed in movies.”
“Do not say that,” I told him.
He looked at me.
“Are the people following us dangerous?”
I considered lying.
Instead, I said, “They may be.”
He nodded as if honesty was a contract between us.
“Then Lily and I should know what to do.”
Paolo turned from the window.
“He is right.”
We reviewed the plan.
If anything happened, the children would stay with Paolo.
The retired officer would remain outside.
I would meet Mrs. Bellini alone.
The house stood at the edge of an olive grove behind a rusted iron gate.
Mrs. Bellini was smaller than I remembered.
She opened the door before I knocked and pulled me inside.
“You have Sofia’s eyes,” she whispered.
The sitting room smelled of coffee, old books, and lavender.
She locked three bolts behind me.
“Where are the children?”
“In the car with my lawyer.”
“Good.”
She crossed the room slowly and removed a framed photograph from the wall.
Behind it was a small brass key taped to the plaster.
My mother’s initials were engraved on one side.
S.M.
“What does it open?” I asked.
Mrs. Bellini placed it in my hand.
“A deposit box in Florence.”
“Which bank?”
“The bank no longer exists.”
“Then the box is gone.”
“No.”
She shook her head.
“Your mother moved it before she died.”
“To where?”
“She did not tell me. She said the address would find you when the time came.”
“That makes no sense.”
“It made sense to her.”
I looked at the key.
“Did she tell you why she was afraid of the Blackwoods?”
Mrs. Bellini sat down.
“She was not afraid of the whole family.”
“Who was she afraid of?”
“Conrad.”
The name felt inevitable.
“Why?”
“Because she knew him before you did.”
I stared at her.
“My mother knew Conrad Blackwood?”
“She worked for his family in Italy.”
“No. She was a seamstress.”
“Yes.”
“For them?”
“For his mother.”
Mrs. Bellini’s voice dropped.
“Before Sofia went to America, she lived in the Blackwood villa near Lake Como.”
My hand closed around the key.
“What happened there?”
Mrs. Bellini looked toward the window.
“A girl disappeared.”
“What girl?”
“A maid.”
“Did my mother know her?”
Mrs. Bellini’s eyes returned to mine.
“She was your mother’s sister.”
I had never known my mother had a sister.
“What was her name?”
“Isabella.”
“What happened to her?”
“Everyone said she ran away.”
“You don’t believe that.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because one month later, Sofia left Italy carrying a baby.”
I could not move.
Mrs. Bellini’s hands trembled in her lap.
“A baby?”
“She told everyone the child belonged to a cousin.”
“Where did the baby go?”
“I do not know.”
“Was the baby hers?”
Mrs. Bellini shook her head.
“It was Isabella’s.”
My thoughts fractured.
A missing aunt.
A hidden child.
Conrad Blackwood.
A company using my mother’s identity.
“What did any of this have to do with my marriage?”
Mrs. Bellini began to answer.
Outside, tires crushed gravel.
She looked toward the door.
The retired officer shouted.
Then came the sound of breaking glass.
Paolo yelled for the children to get down.
Mrs. Bellini grabbed my wrist.
“Go through the kitchen.”
“What about you?”
“They are not here for me.”
A second window shattered.
Smoke poured into the sitting room.
Not fire.
A canister.
My eyes began to burn.
I pulled Mrs. Bellini toward the hallway.
The front door shook beneath a heavy impact.
Once.
Twice.
The upper lock broke.
I dragged her into the kitchen as the door burst inward.
Two masked men entered the house.
One shouted in Italian.
“Find the key.”
Mrs. Bellini pushed me toward the back door.
“Run.”
I refused to leave her.
Then the first masked man appeared in the hallway.
Before he reached us, a shot cracked outside.
He dropped behind the wall.
The retired officer came through the broken front window, weapon raised.
Paolo opened the kitchen door.
“Elena, now!”
I pulled Mrs. Bellini outside.
Noah and Lily were crouched behind the car.
Lily screamed when she saw me.
We ran toward them.
A black sedan waited beyond the gate.
The same gold crest gleamed on its rear window.
As we reached the car, the sedan accelerated away.
The retired officer fired at a tire and missed.
Inside Mrs. Bellini’s house, the second intruder escaped through a side window.
The first left blood across the floor but disappeared into the olive grove.
Police arrived eleven minutes later.
By then, the brass key was no longer in my hand.
I searched my coat.
My pockets.
The ground.
Nothing.
The masked men had not touched me.
Yet the key was gone.
Mrs. Bellini looked at my empty palm.
Her face filled with terror.
“They have it.”
Then Noah stepped forward.
“No,” he said.
He opened his stuffed rabbit’s torn seam.
The brass key fell into his hand.
“I took it when Mom grabbed Grandma Bellini.”
Lily protested.
“That’s my rabbit.”
Noah ignored her.
Mrs. Bellini began to laugh and cry at the same time.
I pulled both children against me.
For one moment, we had won.
Then Paolo’s phone rang.
He listened, looked at me, and turned pale.
“What happened?” I asked.
He lowered the phone.
“The court received the Blackwood financial disclosure.”
“And?”
“The company registered under Sofia Moretti’s name was created eighteen years ago.”
I did the calculation.
One year before I met Adrian.
Paolo continued.
“And the incorporation witness was not Conrad Blackwood.”
“Who was it?”
May you like
He looked at me.
“Your mother signed it herself.”
