Chapter 4 - The Name My Mother Never Told Me|
"That's impossible."
The words escaped before I could stop them.
Harold looked at me with sympathy.
"I understand how this must sound."
"No, you don't."
My voice shook.
"My mother is Margaret Dawson. She owns a framing shop in Milwaukee. She grew up in foster care, and she doesn't know who her biological parents were."
Harold lowered his eyes.
"That's why Sofia never told her."
I stared at him.
"You're telling me Mr. Romano's grandmother was my mother's mother?"
"Possibly," he said gently. "The records suggest it, but we should verify them."
Alessandro immediately stepped closer.
"Claire, sit down."
"I'm fine."
My knees disagreed.
He pulled out a chair.
I sat.
Across the room, Camille gave a humorless laugh.
"This is absurd."
Nobody looked at her.
She tried again.
"Surely you don't believe this convenient little revelation?"
Alessandro turned.
"Enough."
Camille folded her arms.
"A housemaid suddenly discovers she's related to a billionaire family, and nobody finds that suspicious?"
The words hurt.
Not because I believed I belonged to some wealthy dynasty.
Because she made my mother's entire life sound like a cheap trick.
I stood.
"My mother has worked six days a week for thirty years. She repaired damaged frames so other people could hang beautiful paintings in their homes."
My voice trembled.
"She has never asked your family for anything."
Camille looked amused.
"Well, perhaps that is about to change."
Alessandro's expression hardened.
"Camille, leave."
She stared at him.
"What?"
"Go home."
"But Alessandro—"
"We'll discuss your involvement in the gallery tomorrow."
Her face went pale.
For several seconds, she didn't move.
Then she grabbed her purse and walked toward the exit.
At the door, she turned.
"You're making a terrible mistake."
Alessandro looked at her.
"I've made several."
Camille's eyes narrowed.
Then she disappeared into the corridor.
The silence she left behind felt almost peaceful.
Almost.
Alessandro turned toward me.
"Claire, I need you to call your mother."
I looked up.
"Now?"
"If you're comfortable doing that."
The phrase surprised me.
Most wealthy people I'd worked for never asked whether employees were comfortable.
They gave instructions.
I took out my phone.
My mother answered on the fourth ring.
"Hi, sweetheart!"
Her familiar voice nearly made me cry.
"Mom?"
Something in my tone alarmed her.
"Claire? What's wrong?"
I swallowed.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Of course."
"Did you ever hear the name Sofia Romano?"
Silence.
Long enough that I thought the call had disconnected.
"Mom?"
Her voice returned.
Very quietly.
"Where did you hear that name?"
My stomach dropped.
"You know her?"
My mother began breathing unevenly.
"Claire, where are you?"
"At work."
"At the Romano mansion?"
"Yes."
Another silence.
Then she whispered, "Oh, sweetheart."
I felt tears burning.
"Mom, please."
She took a shaky breath.
"When I was twenty-three, a woman came to the shop where I worked. She brought an old painting that needed reframing."
I looked toward the forged artwork.
"Was her name Sofia?"
"She introduced herself as Mrs. Romano."
My heart hammered.
"What happened?"
My mother began crying.
"She asked about my childhood. Whether I remembered Italy. Whether I knew anything about the people who'd given me up."
I closed my eyes.
"Did she tell you who she was?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"She said she was searching for someone she'd lost."
My mother's voice broke.
"Before she left, she gave me a small wooden cross. She said it had belonged to someone who loved me very much."
I pressed a hand against my mouth.
"Do you still have it?"
"Of course."
My mother paused.
"Claire, what is happening?"
I looked toward Alessandro.
His eyes were filled with concern.
I took a breath.
"Mom, I think that woman was your biological mother."
For several seconds, I heard nothing.
Then my mother made a sound I'd never heard from her before.
A soft, broken sob.
"Oh, my God."
I closed my eyes.
"Mom—"
"I knew."
I froze.
"What?"
"I didn't know for certain. But I always wondered."
She began crying harder.
"She had my eyes, Claire. And when she hugged me goodbye, she held on as though she couldn't bear to let go."
Tears rolled down my cheeks.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because I was afraid of being wrong."
I looked toward the photograph in Alessandro's hand.
My mother whispered, "Is she still alive?"
My heart broke.
"No, Mom."
The silence that followed was unbearable.
Then she asked, "Did she leave anything for me?"
I looked at Harold.
He nodded.
"Tell her yes."
I took a trembling breath.
"Yes, Mom. She did."
After we ended the call, Alessandro knelt beside my chair.
He didn't touch me.
He simply looked into my eyes.
"Claire, whatever happens next, I promise nobody is going to pressure your mother into anything."
I nodded.
"Thank you."
He hesitated.
Then asked, "May I see the photograph again?"
I handed him my phone.
He studied the picture I'd taken of the painting's backing.
His expression changed.
"Harold."
The older man approached.
"Yes, sir?"
"What does the rest of the note say?"
Harold looked down.
"I don't know."
Alessandro frowned.
"Why?"
"Because Sofia sealed that section herself."
I remembered something.
"The backing paper had a raised corner near the lower edge."
Harold looked at me.
"Yes."
"I thought it was an old repair."
He shook his head.
"No. It was a sealed compartment."
Alessandro slowly straightened.
"Then we need the original."
Daniel entered the ballroom at that moment.
His expression was grim.
"Boss."
Alessandro turned.
"What?"
"We located Camille's brother."
"Where?"
"At his private gallery."
"Does he have the painting?"
Daniel hesitated.
"He says the original was sold this afternoon."
My stomach tightened.
Alessandro's face hardened.
"To whom?"
Daniel looked toward me.
Then back at his employer.
"A private buyer in New York."
He paused.
"The purchase was made through an account registered to Margaret Dawson."
I stopped breathing.
My mother.
May you like
Someone had used my mother's name to buy the painting.
And now, whether she knew it or not, she was being placed at the center of a crime.
