Chapter 7 - The Other DaughterSomeone had spent eight months making sure I never discovered where my real child was.
The penthouse felt different after that.
Every hallway seemed to hide a witness.
Every locked door seemed to contain a confession.
Alessandro ordered every employee file opened.
Kitchen staff.
Drivers.
Security.
Housekeepers.
Accountants.
I sat in the office holding Mia while he worked.
Three hours later, he stopped.
“I found her.”
My heart jumped.
“Who?”
“My sister.”
He rotated the screen.
A photograph appeared.
A young woman.
Twenty-six years old.
Dark hair.
Pale eyes.
A small crescent birthmark beneath her ear.
I looked at Mia.
Then the photograph.
“That's not your sister.”
“No.”
Alessandro zoomed in.
“It's your daughter.”
My hands began shaking.
The woman in the photograph was older.
But the resemblance was unmistakable.
The shape of the eyes.
The jaw.
The tiny birthmark.
“She was raised under another name.”
“What name?”
“Anna Moretti.”
My throat tightened.
“Moretti?”
Alessandro looked at me.
“You know that name?”
I remembered the stories.
The Morettis had once been rivals of the Ducas.
A business war.
Three dead men.
Two burned warehouses.
One disappearance.
“She's alive?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
Alessandro stood.
“Manhattan.”
I stared.
“She's been in Manhattan this whole time?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't my mother tell me?”
“Maybe she couldn't.”
Alessandro opened a second file.
Anna's medical records.
Birth date.
My daughter's birth date.
Hospital.
Same.
I almost dropped the phone.
“There were two girls.”
“One disappeared.”
“The other became Mia?”
“No.”
He shook his head.
“Mia is the decoy.”
I looked at him.
“What?”
“Someone wanted the real child hidden.”
“Why?”
“Because the real child has something.”
“What?”
He showed me a scanned page.
A DNA sequence.
A legal note.
A family trust.
I didn't understand.
Then I saw one phrase.
DUCA SUCCESSION CLAUSE.
Alessandro explained.
“My grandfather created a private trust.”
“For whom?”
“The first female heir born directly from Vittorio Duca's blood.”
I stared at him.
“And?”
“If that heir was alive when my father died, control of half the Duca holdings would transfer.”
My chest tightened.
“Half?”
“Yes.”
“And your father knew?”
“He knew.”
“Who controls it now?”
“My uncle.”
“Why?”
“Because everyone believes the heiress died.”
Silence.
“Anna is the heiress.”
“Yes.”
“And Mia?”
“Leverage.”
The door opened.
A guard entered.
“Mr. Duca.”
Alessandro turned.
“What?”
“We found Anna.”
My heart jumped.
“Where?”
The guard hesitated.
“In your father's old mansion.”
Alessandro stared.
“That property was sealed.”
“It was.”
“And now?”
“Someone turned the lights on tonight.”
We left immediately.
The old mansion stood on a hill outside the city.
Windows dark.
Garden overgrown.
The front door was open.
Inside, the smell of dust filled the air.
Then we heard a sound.
A baby crying.
I stopped.
Mia stirred in my arms.
“No.”
Alessandro raised his weapon.
The crying came from upstairs.
We followed it.
A nursery.
Crib.
Blankets.
Toys.
Someone had been living there.
Alessandro pulled open a drawer.
Inside were photographs.
Anna as a baby.
Anna at five.
Anna at twelve.
Anna at sixteen.
Then one photograph made me gasp.
Me.
Eight months pregnant.
Taken outside the hospital.
I had never seen it.
On the back:
TRANSFER COMPLETE.
I couldn't breathe.
A voice came from behind us.
“You finally came.”
We turned.
A woman stood in the doorway.
Twenty-six.
Dark hair.
Pale eyes.
Crescent birthmark.
Anna.
She looked at me.
Then Mia.
Then Alessandro.
Her expression broke.
“That's not my sister.”
I tightened my grip on Mia.
“Who are you?”
She smiled sadly.
“I'm the daughter your mother lost.”
Alessandro lowered his gun.
“Anna.”
She shook her head.
“No.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“That's what they called me.”
“What should we call you?”
She looked directly at me.
Then whispered:
“Elise.”
My heart stopped.
“That was my mother's name.”
Anna nodded.
“I know.”
She reached into her coat.
Pulled out an envelope.
“Your mother left this for you.”
I opened it.
One sentence.
Never trust Alessandro Duca.
I looked up.
Anna was pointing a gun.
Not at me.
May you like
At Alessandro.
“He killed my mother.”
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