Chapter 8: The Woman Who Changed Her Name
I left for Boston the following morning.
I didn't tell Livia I was investigating the circumstances of her birth. I told her I needed to speak with someone who had known her mother when they were young.
She accepted that explanation with a seriousness that made my chest ache.
Before I left, she stood beside the front door in her pajamas, holding the silver butterfly clip.
“Daddy, can you bring me something from Mommy's friend?””
I crouched in front of her.
“What would you like?””
“Something that proves Mommy had a happy life before I was born.””
I kissed her forehead.
“I'll see what I can find.””
Rosalie promised to stay with her. Marco arranged security at the house, and Samuel sent me the address of Elena Mercer's attorney.
I traveled with one driver and no other members of my security team.
Elena had insisted on it.
The town was quiet, with narrow streets lined by old brick buildings and shops selling coffee, books, and flowers. The ocean was only a few blocks away, and the wind carried the smell of salt and wet leaves.
Her attorney had arranged for us to meet in a small café near the harbor.
I arrived twenty minutes early and chose a table facing the door.
At exactly ten o'clock, a woman entered.
She looked to be in her late fifties, with silver hair cut just below her chin and a dark blue coat buttoned to her throat. She scanned the room before approaching my table.
“Mr. Moretti?””
I stood.
“Elena Mercer?””
She nodded but didn't offer her hand.
“You look like Isabella.””
The words caught me off guard.
“Did she tell you that?””
“No. I met her when we were seventeen. She used to say that if she ever had a daughter, she hoped the girl would inherit her stubbornness and her father's eyes.””
I sat down slowly.
“You knew my father?””
Elena's expression changed.
“Not personally. But Isabella told me about him.””
I gestured toward the chair.
“Please sit.””
She remained standing.
“Before we begin, I need you to understand something. I did not contact you because I wanted to reopen the past. I contacted you because your wife's name appeared in a document that should never have existed.””
“What document?””
“A copy of a hospital incident report. It was sent to me anonymously six weeks ago.””
She placed a folded sheet of paper on the table.
I opened it.
The document was dated the night Livia was born.
Several lines described a temporary identification discrepancy involving two newborn girls. One baby had been moved from the maternity ward during an emergency. Another had been placed in the wrong observation room.
The final section was missing.
“Where did this come from?”” I asked.
“I don't know. It arrived at my home in an envelope with no return address.””
“Why did you wait six weeks to contact me?””
“Because I was afraid.””
“Of whom?””
Elena looked toward the window.
“Adrian Bellini's father. And the people who helped him.””
I leaned forward.
“Tell me what happened that night.””
She took a slow breath.
“I was a junior nurse at St. Catherine's. Isabella was admitted earlier than expected, and the maternity ward was overcrowded. There had been a complication with another patient, so several newborns were temporarily moved between rooms.””
“Was Livia among them?””
“Yes.””
“Was another baby placed in her crib?””
Elena closed her eyes briefly.
“I believe so.””
My fingers tightened around the paper.
“Believe?””
“I was not the nurse responsible for the final identification. I noticed that one infant's identification bracelet didn't match the number on the observation chart. I reported it immediately.””
“What happened?””
“My supervisor told me the discrepancy had been corrected. She said the babies had been identified, the records had been reconciled, and there was no reason for concern.””
“Did you see the correction?””
“No.””
“Did you verify the identities yourself?””
“No.””
I stood so abruptly that my chair scraped the floor.
“So you saw a possible mix-up involving newborn babies, and you accepted someone else's word that it had been fixed?””
Elena flinched.
“I was twenty-three years old. I was a junior nurse. My supervisor told me the matter had been handled, and I had no reason to believe she was lying.””
“You had every reason to check.””
“Yes,” she whispered.
“I did.””
Her answer stopped me.
She didn't defend herself. She didn't try to excuse what had happened.
She simply looked at me with the exhausted expression of someone who had spent decades replaying a decision she wished she could change.
“I have lived with that mistake every day,” she said.
“But I need you to understand that I never knowingly allowed a child to be taken.””
I sat again.
“Who was your supervisor?””
“Margaret Ellis. She was the maternity ward administrator.””
“Is she still alive?””
“No. She died eight years ago.””
I looked down at the report.
“Was Isabella aware of the discrepancy?””
Elena nodded.
“She came to see me several months after the birth. She said she'd discovered an inconsistency in the records and wanted to know whether I remembered anything unusual.””
“What did you tell her?””
“The truth. That I had reported the mismatch and been assured it was corrected.””
“Did she believe you?””
“I don't know. She looked frightened.””
Elena reached into her bag and pulled out a small photograph.
It showed Isabella standing outside the hospital, holding a newborn.
The same photograph I'd seen at the airfield.
But this copy was intact.
The man's face hadn't been scratched out.
I took it from her.
The man standing beside Isabella was not Adrian Bellini.
It was my father.
My dead father.
I stared at the image.
“That can't be right.””
Elena's eyes filled with tears.
“Your father was at the hospital that night.””
“My father died eight years before Livia was born.””
“I know.””
I looked at the photograph again.
The man's face was unmistakable. The same strong jaw. The same deep-set eyes. The same small scar above his left eyebrow from a car accident when I was a child.
Yet the date printed on the back was the night Livia was born.
I turned the photograph over.
There was a second handwritten note.
He came back for the child.
My hands began to shake.
“Who wrote this?””
“Isabella.””
I looked at Elena.
“What does it mean?””
She shook her head.
“I don't know. I only know that your father had been dead for years, yet Isabella believed she had seen him at the hospital.””
I stared at her.
“That's impossible.””
“Perhaps the date is wrong. Perhaps the photograph was taken earlier. Perhaps someone deliberately altered the information. I don't have the answers.””
I felt as if the ground beneath my life had begun to crack.
Elena continued.
“Two weeks after Isabella came to see me, I received a call from someone claiming to represent the Bellini family. He asked whether I had spoken to her about the hospital records.””
“Who?””
“He wouldn't give his name. He said the matter had been resolved and that reopening it would harm innocent people.””
“And you believed him?””
“No. But I was frightened. I had a young son. I couldn't afford to lose my job, and the Bellinis had powerful friends.””
I looked at the report.
“Did you ever see my father at the hospital?””
Elena hesitated.
“Not that night.””
“Then how did Isabella take this photograph?””
“I don't know.””
I placed the photograph on the table.
“Is there anything else?””
Elena looked at me for a long moment.
Then she reached into her bag again and produced a small notebook.
“Isabella gave me this the last time we met.””
I stared at it.
“Why didn't you mention it earlier?””
“Because I wanted to know whether you were truly seeking the truth or simply looking for someone to blame.””
I took the notebook.
Its cover was worn, and the first several pages contained handwritten dates, hospital room numbers, and the names of staff members.
Near the middle, I found a page marked with a red line.
Three names were written beneath it.
Margaret Ellis.
Adrian Bellini.
And Daniel Cross.
I stared at the third name.
Daniel was the financial adviser who'd told me about Bianca's attempt to transfer the trust funds.
“What was Daniel Cross doing in a hospital record?””
Elena looked unsettled.
“He was a junior accountant working for the Bellini family at the time. I don't know why Isabella wrote his name.””
I flipped to the next page.
A sentence had been underlined twice.
The child who left the hospital was not necessarily the child who entered it.
My mouth went dry.
“What does that mean?””
Elena shook her head.
“That's the sentence that frightened me most.””
I continued reading.
The next page contained a list of dates and payments. Several amounts had been crossed out, and a note in Isabella's handwriting read:
Payments made through Bellini Family Holdings. Purpose unknown.
At the bottom of the page was a name.
*Dr. Peter Lang.*
I recognized it.
He had been my father's personal physician.
He had also signed the death certificate when my father died.
I looked up.
“Why would my father's doctor appear in these records?””
Elena went pale.
“Because Dr. Lang was the attending physician at St. Catherine's the night Isabella gave birth.””
I stared at her.
“Was he involved in the identification process?””
“He was called to the maternity ward during the emergency. According to the incident report, he authorized the temporary transfer of the newborns.””
My mind raced.
My father had been dead for years.
His physician had been at the hospital.
Adrian's family had made payments.
And someone had removed a newborn before the records were finalized.
I suddenly understood why Isabella had been afraid.
The truth wasn't simply about a mistake.
Someone might have arranged it.
My phone vibrated.
A message from Samuel appeared.
*Urgent: Daniel Cross has requested a meeting. He says he can explain the trust transfer, but he insists you come alone.*
I showed Elena.
She read the message and immediately shook her head.
“Don't go.””
“Why?””
“Because Daniel was involved in the original hospital inquiry. If he is contacting you now, someone has told him you found me.””
I stared at the screen.
Another message arrived.
This one contained a photograph of my house.
Livia stood at the front window, holding her silver butterfly clip.
The message beneath it read:
*Stop asking questions about the baby, or your daughter will be taken somewhere you can never find her.*
I shot to my feet.
Elena grabbed my arm.
“Alessandro, listen to me. If you rush home without contacting the police, you may lead whoever sent that message straight to Livia.””
I called Marco.
He answered on the first ring.
“Sir?””
“Get to Rosalie's house immediately. Secure Livia. Don't let anyone inside unless you personally verify their identity.””
“Understood.””
I called Rosalie next.
She answered breathlessly.
“Alessandro?””
“Is Livia with you?””
“Yes. She's in the kitchen.””
“Lock every door. Move her away from the windows. Marco is coming.””
“What happened?””
I sent her the photograph.
She gasped.
“Oh, God.””
“Did anyone come to the house?””
“No, but the doorbell rang ten minutes ago. A delivery driver left a package. I haven't opened it.””
My stomach dropped.
“Don't touch it.””
I ended the call and contacted the local police.
Elena stood beside me, her face stricken.
“I'm sorry,” she whispered.
“I never wanted your daughter to be dragged into this.””
I looked at the intact photograph of my father.
“You didn't do this.””
I folded the hospital report and placed it in my jacket.
“But someone did.””
As I hurried toward the café entrance, Elena called after me.
“Alessandro!””
I turned.
She was holding the notebook open to its final page.
“There's one more thing Isabella wrote.””
I went back.
At the bottom of the page, beneath a list of names, was a sentence I hadn't noticed.
If Alessandro's father is ever seen alive again, do not believe the man claiming to be him.
I stared at the words.
My father had been dead for eight years.
Yet someone had used his identity to collect Livia's birth certificate.
Someone had appeared beside Isabella at the hospital.
And someone was now threatening to take my daughter.
I looked at Elena.
“Who was my father really?””
She began to cry.
“I don't know,” she said.
“But I think Isabella did.””
Then she gave me the last page of the notebook.
On it was an address in Boston and a name I had never expected to see.
*Thomas Moretti.*
My father's younger brother.
The uncle who had supposedly died in a boating accident when I was twelve.
May you like
The uncle whose body had never been recovered.
And the uncle Isabella had once described as the only man who could tell us what happened to the baby.
