Chapter 2 - The Name Buried in the PhotographI didn't remember leaving the restaurant.
One moment I was standing beneath the photograph.
The next, I was sitting in the back of Dante Moretti's armored car with his son sleeping against my chest.
Nobody had asked whether I wanted to come.
Nobody had given me a choice.
The strange part was that I wasn't even afraid.
I should have been terrified.
Instead, I felt numb.
My entire life had suddenly become a lie.
“My sister died twenty-four years ago?” I asked.
Dante sat across from me.
“Yes.”
“What was her name?”
“Isabella Valdez.”
“Then why does she look exactly like me?”
He didn't answer.
The baby shifted.
His tiny face pressed against my shoulder.
Dante looked at him.
“My son is Gabriel.”
I stared down at the little boy.
“Gabriel.”
He opened his eyes, looked at me, then closed them again.
Dante spoke quietly.
“His mother died nine months ago.”
“How?”
“Car accident.”
I looked at him.
“You don't believe that.”
It wasn't a question.
His expression hardened.
“No.”
The car slowed as a massive iron gate opened ahead.
I had expected a mansion.
I wasn't prepared for the estate.
High stone walls surrounded the property.
Security cameras watched every corner.
Men with earpieces stood beneath floodlights.
The building itself looked less like a home and more like a fortress pretending to be one.
The gates closed behind us.
My pulse increased.
“Where are you taking me?”
“My house.”
“I want to go home.”
“You will.”
He paused.
“After I find out who you are.”
I almost laughed.
“Who I am?”
“Yes.”
“I know who I am.”
“No,” he said quietly. “You know the name you were given.”
The words followed me into the house.
A woman in her sixties was waiting in the entrance hall.
Her face went white the moment she saw me.
She looked at Gabriel.
Then at me.
The tray in her hand slipped.
It shattered on the marble floor.
“God help us.”
Dante's eyes narrowed.
“You know her?”
The woman didn't answer.
She stared at me as though she had seen a ghost.
Then she whispered one word.
“Lina.”
My blood turned cold.
Nobody called me Lina except my mother.
“What did you call me?”
The woman's eyes filled with tears.
Dante stepped toward her.
“Clara.”
“I thought she was dead.”
I felt my stomach twist.
Dante's voice sharpened.
“Who?”
Clara looked at me.
“You.”
My heart began pounding.
“I've never met you.”
She covered her mouth.
“No.”
Dante moved closer.
“Tell me the truth.”
Clara looked down.
Then back up.
“You shouldn't have brought her here.”
“Why?”
“Because if she's alive, they will come.”
“Who?”
Clara's eyes moved toward the windows.
“The people who killed Isabella.”
Silence.
Dante's face became unreadable.
“What are you talking about?”
Clara began shaking.
“I thought you knew.”
“Knew what?”
She pointed at me.
“She isn't Isabella.”
I exhaled.
“I know.”
“But she is her sister.”
Dante's eyes darkened.
“Say it clearly.”
Clara swallowed.
“Isabella had a twin.”
I felt the room tilt.
“A twin?”
Clara nodded.
“You.”
Dante closed his eyes for a moment.
I stared at him.
“You knew.”
“I suspected.”
“You knew.”
“I did not know.”
“Then why did you bring me here?”
His gaze dropped to Gabriel.
“Because my son knew.”
I didn't understand.
Dante reached into his jacket and removed a folded piece of paper.
It was old.
Creased.
Yellow around the edges.
He handed it to me.
I opened it.
It was a photograph.
Two little girls stood in a garden.
Same hair.
Same eyes.
Same smile.
One wore a white dress.
The other wore a yellow one.
I recognized the white dress immediately.
Because I had a faded photograph of myself wearing it.
I looked up.
“Where did you get this?”
“It belonged to Isabella.”
I stared at the photograph.
“Which one is me?”
Dante pointed.
“The girl in yellow.”
My fingers went cold.
I had never seen that image.
Not once.
“Why don't I remember her?”
Clara whispered from behind us.
“Because someone made sure you wouldn't.”
I turned.
“What does that mean?”
She began crying.
“Your father was trying to protect you.”
“My father?”
“Isabella was taken.”
I stared.
“She wasn't killed in a car crash?”
“No.”
Dante's face went rigid.
“Clara.”
“She was murdered.”
The word hung in the hallway.
“Murdered?”
Clara nodded.
“And everyone thought the other twin died with her.”
I couldn't speak.
Dante looked at the photograph.
“Then who raised her?”
Clara hesitated.
“Lucia.”
“My mother?”
“Yes.”
“Why would she hide me?”
“Because she was afraid.”
“Of who?”
Clara looked toward Dante.
“Of Moretti's enemies.”
Dante's eyes hardened.
“Which enemy?”
Clara shook her head.
“It's not one person.”
She took a slow breath.
“It is a family.”
I looked at the armed men outside.
The cameras.
The gates.
The fortress.
Then I looked down at Gabriel.
He was sleeping peacefully.
And suddenly I understood why Dante looked afraid.
Someone had spent twenty-four years believing one twin was dead.
The other had been hidden.
And somehow, against all logic, the dead woman's baby had recognized the surviving twin.
Dante took the photograph from my hands.
“There is one more thing.”
I looked at him.
“What?”
He held my gaze.
“Isabella was pregnant when she died.”
I frowned.
“That doesn't make sense. Gabriel was nine months old.”
“No.”
My stomach dropped.
Dante looked toward his son.
“She gave birth three days before she died.”
I stared at Gabriel.
“What happened between the birth and the accident?”
His voice was almost a whisper.
“She vanished for seventy-two hours.”
My heart pounded.
“Why?”
Dante looked at me.
“That's what I'm going to find out.”
Then every light in the house went out.
Gunfire exploded outside.
Gabriel woke screaming.
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And from somewhere beyond the windows came a voice shouting:
“THE OTHER TWIN IS ALIVE!”
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