Chapter 4 - THE GRAVE THAT HAD NO BODY|
"Don't trust the grave."
I read the words again.
And again.
But they refused to make sense.
Adrian stood beside me in Sophie's ransacked bedroom, staring at the tiny strip of paper.
The apartment smelled of overturned drawers and spilled perfume.
A police officer was photographing the damaged furniture.
Frank was speaking quietly with another officer in the hallway.
And my daughter slept in her stroller, unaware that someone had searched through the little room where she kept her favorite toys.
"Elena," Adrian whispered, "may I see it?"
I handed him the paper.
His fingers trembled.
He read the words.
Then closed his eyes.
"What grave?" I asked.
He didn't answer immediately.
"Adrian?"
He looked toward me.
"My mother's."
I felt my stomach tighten.
"Your mother has a grave?"
He nodded.
"In Chicago."
"But you said she disappeared."
"She did."
His expression became troubled.
"My father told me she died several months afterward."
I stared at him.
"Did you see her?"
He shook his head.
"I was eight."
"Did you attend the funeral?"
"Yes."
My stomach dropped.
"Was there a coffin?"
He nodded.
"Closed."
For a moment, the room seemed to tilt.
My mother had died eight months earlier.
I'd held her hand when she took her last breath.
I'd arranged her funeral.
I'd watched the cemetery workers lower her coffin into the ground.
I knew where she was buried.
But Adrian had spent twenty-six years visiting a grave belonging to a woman who had apparently been alive until recently.
"What if the grave was a lie?" I whispered.
Adrian looked at the paper.
"Then someone went to extraordinary lengths to make me believe my mother was dead."
I stared at him.
"And she knew."
His expression softened.
"She must have."
I thought about all the times I'd asked my mother about our family.
She'd always said the past was dangerous.
That some questions were better left unanswered.
That I should focus on building a future.
I'd thought she was protecting me from painful memories.
Now I wondered whether she'd been protecting me from people who could still hurt us.
Adrian turned toward the officer.
"May I ask something?"
The officer nodded.
"Of course."
"Have you found evidence that the intruder took anything besides the music box?"
"We're still documenting the scene."
Adrian nodded.
"Thank you."
Then he looked back at me.
"We shouldn't disturb anything else until they're finished."
I swallowed.
"Okay."
I looked toward Sophie.
She was beginning to stir.
Her little eyelashes fluttered.
Then she opened her eyes.
"Mommy?"
I hurried toward her.
"Hi, sweetheart."
She looked around.
"Why are we home?"
I crouched beside her.
"Somebody came into the apartment while we were gone."
Her eyes widened.
"Did they take my toys?"
I hesitated.
"They moved some things."
She looked toward her bedroom.
Then her face crumpled.
"My music box."
I felt my chest tighten.
"Sophie—"
"Grandma's music box."
Her voice broke.
I hugged her.
"I'm so sorry, honey."
She began crying.
"Grandma said the bird would sing when I was lonely."
I closed my eyes.
I remembered my mother placing the box beside Sophie's hospital bed during one of her appointments.
She'd turned the little key.
The blue bird had risen.
And that familiar melody had filled the room.
Sleep, little sparrow, the bells will ring.
Sophie had smiled.
And my mother had whispered, "As long as you remember the song, Grandma is never far away."
Now someone had stolen the box.
But the bird was still in my hand.
I opened my palm.
"Look, sweetheart."
Sophie stopped crying.
"The bird!"
I smiled through my tears.
"He was hiding."
She reached for it.
I hesitated because the wooden edge was broken.
Then I showed it to her carefully.
She touched the blue paint with one finger.
"He's okay."
I nodded.
"Yes."
She looked relieved.
"Can we fix him?"
My throat tightened.
"We'll try."
Adrian watched quietly.
Then he said, "And we'll try to find the rest of the box."
Sophie looked at him.
"Promise?"
He knelt.
"I promise I'll do everything I can."
She studied him.
Then nodded.
"Okay."
By the time the officers finished documenting the apartment, it was nearly three in the morning.
I was exhausted.
Sophie needed a proper bed.
And our home no longer felt safe.
Adrian offered us a guest suite at the mansion again.
This time, he explained that I could inspect the room, keep the key, and decide whether to stay.
I looked at my daughter.
Her head rested against my shoulder.
She was half asleep.
I had no strength left to search for another place in the middle of the night.
So I agreed.
But before leaving, I took the strip of paper with me after the officer documented it.
Four words.
Don't trust the grave.
I kept seeing them even when I closed my eyes.
The next morning, Adrian arranged a meeting with his family attorney.
Her name was Katherine Shaw.
She was a calm, sharp-eyed woman in her fifties who had represented the Moretti family for nearly twenty years.
When Adrian told her about the message, her expression changed.
"Lucia's grave?"
He nodded.
"Yes."
Katherine looked toward me.
Then back at Adrian.
"Your father arranged the funeral."
"I know."
"And Matteo handled the burial paperwork."
Adrian went still.
"What?"
Katherine frowned.
"You didn't know?"
He shook his head.
She opened her notebook.
"After the fire, your father was hospitalized for several weeks."
I stared at her.
"He was injured?"
"Yes."
She looked toward Adrian.
"Matteo handled a great deal of family business during that period."
Adrian's face hardened.
"Nobody told me."
Katherine sighed.
"You were a child."
He looked away.
For several moments, the room was silent.
Then I spoke.
"Can we find out whether someone is actually buried there?"
Katherine considered the question.
"Through official records first."
I nodded.
She continued.
"We'll review the death certificate, burial permit, cemetery records, and any supporting documentation."
Adrian leaned forward.
"And if those records are false?"
"Then we'll consult the authorities about the appropriate legal process."
I looked down.
Part of me wanted to go to the cemetery immediately.
To stand beside the grave.
To demand answers from the stone.
But another part of me knew my mother had hidden that message for a reason.
She'd wanted us to question the story.
Not act recklessly.
Katherine turned toward me.
"Elena, do you have your mother's death certificate?"
I nodded.
"Yes."
"And any immigration records?"
"Some."
"May we review them?"
I hesitated.
Then nodded.
"Of course."
She smiled gently.
"Thank you."
Adrian looked toward the window.
For a long moment, he seemed lost in thought.
Then he spoke.
"When I was ten, Matteo took me to my mother's grave."
His voice was quiet.
"He told me that if I worked hard enough, I could make her proud."
I looked at him.
Adrian continued.
"I stood there and promised I'd become someone important."
He laughed without humor.
"And every year afterward, I went back."
My eyes filled.
"Adrian."
He shook his head.
"I brought flowers."
"Talked about school."
"Told her about my father."
His voice cracked.
"Sometimes I told her I was angry she left me."
I couldn't speak.
He looked toward me.
"And all that time, she might have been alive."
I reached across the table.
Then hesitated.
He noticed.
And gently took my hand.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then I whispered, "She loved you."
His eyes filled.
"How do you know?"
"Because she never stopped talking about you."
Adrian froze.
I took a shaky breath.
"She didn't tell me your name."
I swallowed.
"But she told me she once had a little boy who loved the rain."
His expression changed.
"She said he collected smooth stones."
Adrian stared at me.
"From the garden fountain."
My eyes widened.
"Yes."
He closed his eyes.
"She said he wanted to build a castle out of them."
Adrian began crying.
It happened so quietly that at first I barely noticed.
His shoulders trembled.
He pressed his free hand against his face.
And the powerful man who'd silenced an entire ballroom broke down over a childhood memory.
I moved beside him.
For a moment, I didn't know what to do.
Then I hugged him.
He held on.
Not like a mafia boss.
Not like a billionaire.
Like a little boy who had waited twenty-six years for his mother to come home.
When he finally pulled away, his eyes were red.
"I'm sorry."
I shook my head.
"Don't."
He swallowed.
"I don't know why I'm doing this."
"Because you loved her."
He looked down.
"And because she loved you."
Later that afternoon, Katherine returned with preliminary records.
Her expression was serious.
Adrian stood immediately.
"What did you find?"
She placed three documents on the table.
"The cemetery has a burial record."
I held my breath.
"And?"
"There is a death certificate."
Adrian nodded slowly.
"But the documents contain conflicting information."
His expression changed.
"What kind?"
Katherine pointed to the date.
"The certificate says Lucia Moretti died four months after the nursery fire."
I stared at it.
"That can't be right."
She nodded.
"Because Elena has records placing her mother in Italy years afterward."
Adrian leaned closer.
Katherine continued.
"The physician listed on the certificate died before the stated date."
Silence filled the room.
Adrian slowly straightened.
"Are you certain?"
"I verified the medical licensing record."
He looked at me.
My stomach turned.
Someone had apparently used a dead doctor's name to support my mother's supposed death.
Katherine opened another document.
"And the cemetery's file contains something else."
She pointed to a handwritten entry.
Burial authorized by Matteo Rinaldi.
Adrian closed his eyes.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then Katherine turned the page.
"There was a later amendment."
I frowned.
"What amendment?"
She looked troubled.
"A request to transfer the remains."
Adrian went still.
"When?"
Katherine took a breath.
"Six months ago."
My stomach dropped.
Six months ago.
Two months after my mother died.
One month before Vanessa hired me.
Adrian stared at the document.
"Who requested the transfer?"
Katherine looked toward us.
Then answered.
"Matteo Rinaldi."
I could barely breathe.
"Where were the remains transferred?"
Katherine shook her head.
"That's the problem."
She handed Adrian the final page.
The destination field was blank.
And beneath it was a handwritten note.
TRANSFER COMPLETED WITHOUT FAMILY NOTIFICATION.
Adrian stared at the paper.
Then looked toward me.
"Elena, somebody moved my mother's grave six months ago."
I swallowed.
"Why?"
He didn't answer.
Because at that exact moment, Katherine's phone rang.
She glanced at the screen.
Then frowned.
"It's the cemetery director."
She answered.
Listened.
And slowly stood.
"What do you mean, the records were changed?"
Adrian moved closer.
Katherine's expression hardened.
"Changed by whom?"
A long silence followed.
Then she looked directly at us.
Her face had gone pale.
"The director says someone accessed the cemetery archive last night."
Adrian stared at her.
"And?"
Katherine swallowed.
"The original burial file is missing."
She listened again.
Then whispered, "And the security footage shows the person who took it."
I held my breath.
"Who?"
Katherine lowered her phone.
For a moment, she seemed unable to speak.
May you like
Then she answered.
"Vanessa Bellini."
