Chapter 8 – THE ROSARY LEFT BEHIND

The air in my lungs completely vanished.

I stood frozen in the grand foyer, the tiny, faded photograph burning in my hand. The joyful sounds of Teresa weeping over her new granddaughter, the quiet comfort Luca was offering Sophia… it all faded into a deafening, high-pitched ringing in my ears.

The day we gave her away. May God forgive us.

I stared at the image of my mother. Clara Collins. She looked so young, so exhausted, clutching a tiny bundle wrapped in a pink blanket.

Why did Teresa Moretti have a picture of my mother giving birth? Why was it hidden in a rosary that Vanessa Bellini had been carrying?

“Hannah?”

Luca’s voice broke through the ringing.

I looked up. He was walking toward me, his brow furrowed in concern.

“Are you alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I couldn’t speak. I instinctively closed my fist around the photograph and the rosary, hiding them behind my back.

“I’m… I’m fine,” I stammered, my voice trembling. “I was just going to the kitchen to make tea for everyone. For the shock.”

Luca studied my face for a long moment, his sharp eyes missing nothing. But before he could press the issue, Evelyn walked over and tapped his shoulder, signing something about needing a tissue for Teresa.

“Thank you, Hannah,” Luca said gently. “We could all use a cup.”

I nodded quickly and practically ran down the hallway toward the west wing kitchen.

When I burst through the swinging doors, the massive industrial kitchen was empty. The staff had all retreated to their quarters during the chaos.

I leaned against the cold stainless steel counter, gasping for air. I opened my hand and looked at the photograph again.

My mother had always told me my father, David Collins, died in a car accident before I was born. She said we had no extended family. She worked as a nurse in a public hospital, scraping by to raise me.

But if Teresa Moretti had written that inscription…

We gave her away.

I pulled my cell phone from my apron pocket. My hands were shaking so badly I dropped it twice before finally dialing my mother’s number.

She was supposed to be asleep, recovering from her hip surgery at home.

It rang four times. Then, the voicemail beeped.

I hung up and tried again.

On the third ring, she answered.

“Hannah, sweetie? Are you still at the dinner?” Her voice was thick with sleep and painkillers.

“Mom,” I choked out, a sob catching in my throat. “Mom, I need you to tell me the truth.”

A heavy pause on the line.

“What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” she asked, suddenly alert.

“I found a photograph,” I whispered, tears spilling hot down my cheeks. “A picture of you in the hospital. Holding me. And on the back… Teresa Moretti wrote that they gave me away.”

The silence that followed was the most terrifying sound I had ever heard. It wasn’t the silence of confusion. It was the silence of a woman who had just been caught running from a ghost.

“Hannah,” my mother’s voice cracked. “Get out. Get out of that house right now.”

“Mom, what does it mean?” I pleaded, gripping the edge of the counter. “Why does the Moretti family have a picture of me? Why did Vanessa Bellini have it hidden?”

“Oh God,” my mother wept softly. “Vanessa found out. She was using it as insurance.”

“Insurance for what?”

I heard my mother take a ragged breath.

“Hannah… David Collins wasn’t your father.”

The room seemed to tilt on its axis. “What?”

“I was young,” my mother sobbed. “I was a private nurse hired to take care of Antonio Moretti’s ailing mother twenty-six years ago. I lived in that mansion. And… and I fell in love with Antonio’s younger brother.”

“Silvio,” I breathed, the name tasting like ash in my mouth.

“Yes,” she cried. “Silvio is your father, Hannah. But when Teresa found out I was pregnant, she panicked. The Moretti family was trying to go legitimate. A scandal with a maid… a bastard child… it would have ruined Silvio’s marriage to the Bellini family.”

I felt physically sick. “So she made you leave?”

“Teresa paid me,” my mother confessed, the guilt of twenty-five years pouring out of her. “She gave me enough money to move away, change my name, and raise you in secret. She took the photograph to ensure I never came back to blackmail them. She wrote that on the back as a reminder of her own sin.”

I stared at the kitchen wall, my entire life unraveling in a matter of seconds.

I wasn’t just a maid. I was Silvio Moretti’s daughter. I was Luca’s cousin.

“Vanessa found the photograph in Silvio’s old desk years later,” my mother continued frantically. “She used it to blackmail Silvio into helping her father embezzle the family money! Hannah, if Vanessa left that photograph behind tonight, it means she doesn’t need it as leverage anymore.”

“Why wouldn’t she need it?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

“Because Silvio is coming,” my mother said, stark terror in her voice. “Don Bellini’s assets were frozen today. Silvio knows Luca has the confession. Silvio is coming to the mansion tonight to wipe out the entire family before Luca can hand those files to the FBI.”

Before I could say another word, the heavy swinging doors of the kitchen burst open.

I spun around, dropping my phone.

Standing in the doorway, holding a suppressed pistol, was a man in a dark trench coat.

And behind him, stepping into the light of the kitchen, was Silvio Moretti.

He looked older than I remembered from the few times I had seen him at family dinners. His eyes were cold, dead, completely devoid of the warmth Luca possessed.

Silvio looked at me, then down at the faded photograph in my hand.

He tilted his head, a twisted, humorless smile creeping across his face.

“Hello, Hannah,” my father said quietly. “I hear you’ve been looking for me.”