Chapter 5 - The Woman in the Security Footage|
"My mother was at work yesterday."
I said it three times.
The first time, Luca listened.
The second time, Daniel checked his phone.
The third time, Francesca gently took my hand and told me to sit down.
But I couldn't.
My mother, Helen Whitmore, was sixty-one years old. She made wedding bouquets, complained about Chicago winters, and cried whenever Isabella performed in a school play.
She had never asked Luca for money.
She had never shown any interest in the Moretti businesses.
And she had certainly never been involved in a secret family conspiracy.
"Show me the footage," I demanded.
Luca looked toward Daniel, who had just entered Francesca's bedroom carrying a tablet.
The security chief hesitated.
"Mrs. Moretti—"
"Please."
He opened the video.
The timestamp showed 2:17 p.m. the previous afternoon.
Vanessa entered Francesca's bedroom.
A second woman followed.
She wore a beige coat, low heels, and a dark scarf.
Her face was partly hidden.
But I recognized the coat.
My mother owned one just like it.
Then the woman turned slightly.
My breath caught.
She looked like Helen.
Very much like Helen.
But something wasn't right.
"Pause it."
Daniel obeyed.
I leaned closer.
The woman's left hand rested against the doorframe.
A gold bracelet circled her wrist.
"My mother doesn't wear jewelry like that."
Luca frowned.
"Are you certain?"
"She's allergic to certain metals. She wears her wedding ring and nothing else."
Daniel enlarged the image.
The woman's face remained unclear.
I looked at her shoes.
Another detail troubled me.
"My mother injured her right ankle years ago. She doesn't walk that quickly in heels."
Luca studied the recording.
Then looked toward Daniel.
"Check every other camera."
Daniel nodded.
"Already doing it."
Francesca suddenly spoke.
"Emma, when was the last time you spoke to your mother?"
"This afternoon."
"What did she say?"
I thought for a moment.
"She asked whether I was coming to dinner on Sunday."
"Anything else?"
I hesitated.
"She seemed worried."
Luca looked up.
"Worried about what?"
"She asked whether Vanessa was still visiting the house."
Francesca exchanged a glance with Luca.
I noticed.
"What?"
Neither answered.
My patience finally broke.
"Stop doing that."
Luca turned.
"Doing what?"
"Looking at each other as though everyone in this family has been issued a secret book except me."
Francesca lowered her eyes.
Luca stepped forward.
"Emma—"
"No."
I held up my hand.
"You knew someone threatened Isabella. You knew about Switzerland. You knew Vanessa was involved in something dangerous. And now my mother is apparently connected to a secret your grandmother has kept for decades."
My voice trembled.
"I am finished being the last person to know what happens to my own family."
Silence followed.
Then Francesca spoke.
"Your mother came to see me last week."
I stared at her.
"What?"
"She arrived while you were shopping with Isabella."
"Why?"
Francesca swallowed.
"She asked me about Rosa DeLuca."
The room seemed to shift beneath my feet.
"My mother knows that name?"
"Apparently."
Luca leaned against the dresser.
"What did she want?"
Francesca looked at him.
"She wanted to know whether Rosa had left behind a daughter."
My heart began pounding.
"Why would she ask that?"
Francesca reached into the pocket of her velvet robe.
She removed a folded photograph.
It showed a young woman standing outside a brick church.
Dark hair.
Large brown eyes.
A narrow face.
She wore a simple cream dress and held a bouquet of white roses.
I stared.
The resemblance was unmistakable.
She looked like my mother.
Only younger.
"That's Helen," I whispered.
Francesca shook her head.
"No, sweetheart."
She turned the photograph over.
A name had been written on the back.
ROSA DELUCA MORETTI — MAY 1963.
I looked up.
"Who is she?"
Francesca's eyes filled.
"The woman your husband's grandfather married in secret."
My stomach tightened.
"But why does she look like my mother?"
Francesca touched my cheek.
"That's what Helen came here to ask."
Luca slowly straightened.
"Nonna..."
She looked at him.
"I think Rosa's child survived."
I stared between them.
Nobody spoke.
Then my phone rang.
Mom.
I answered immediately.
"Mom?"
Her voice was trembling.
"Emma, honey, where are you?"
"At home. What's wrong?"
"Is Isabella with you?"
"Yes. She's safe."
My mother began crying.
"Thank God."
I felt cold.
"Mom, what's happening?"
There was a pause.
Then she whispered, "Listen carefully. Do not let Vanessa Bellini near your daughter."
My fingers tightened around the phone.
"Mom—"
"She came to the shop today. She asked whether I'd told you who my mother was."
I stared at Rosa's photograph.
"Who was your mother?"
Helen began sobbing.
"Her name was Rosa."
The room went silent.
Then my mother said something that changed everything.
"Emma, that woman in the Moretti photograph was my mother."
I closed my eyes.
Rosa DeLuca.
My mother's mother.
The woman who had secretly married Luca's grandfather.
My grandmother.
And then Helen whispered, "But Rosa was never Luca's grandfather's wife in the eyes of the law."
I frowned.
"What do you mean?"
"Because there was another marriage certificate. One she kept hidden."
A long silence followed.
Then my mother said, "Your husband needs to know that Vittorio Moretti wasn't my father."
I looked toward Luca.
May you like
His eyes were fixed on mine.
And for the first time that night, I began to understand why someone was desperate to destroy our marriage.
