Chapter 5 - The Birth Certificate
I dropped the phone.
Marco caught it before it hit the floor.
Neither of us spoke.
The room felt too small.
“This is fake,” Marco said immediately.
I wanted to believe him.
But the confidence in his voice sounded manufactured.
Sofia stared at the photograph.
“No.”
Marco looked at his mother.
“What do you mean, no?”
“I mean Katherine and Vittorio were never…”
She stopped.
“Never what?” I demanded.
Sofia’s eyes filled.
“Never lovers.”
Relief came too quickly.
Then suspicion followed.
“How can you be sure?”
“Because Katherine loved Thomas.”
“My father?”
“The man who raised you, yes.”
Marco studied the document.
“Digital images can be altered.”
“Then why send it?”
“To destabilize us.”
It was working.
I stepped away from Marco.
I hated that I needed distance.
He noticed.
His expression changed.
“Emily.”
“I need a minute.”
He gave it to me.
That was what Marco always did.
He never chased when someone needed space.
Maybe that was why I eventually turned back.
“What do we do?”
“Verify it.”
By sunrise, Marco had three separate experts examining the image.
One found signs of editing within an hour.
The document was fake.
The original record listed Thomas Carter.
I sat on the terrace when Marco brought me the confirmation.
“Not related,” he said quietly.
I almost laughed.
“Romantic.”
“I can try again.”
“Please don’t.”
He sat beside me.
We didn’t touch at first.
Then I moved my hand slightly.
Marco understood.
His fingers threaded through mine.
Real this time.
Not part of the performance.
“Whoever sent that knew exactly what would hurt us,” I said.
“Yes.”
“They knew about my mother.”
“Yes.”
“They knew about us.”
Marco’s jaw tightened.
“Or guessed.”
“Ross?”
“Possibly.”
I hated the idea.
But something about Ross’s sudden appearance had always been too convenient.
We decided not to obey the demand.
At least not exactly.
Marco would bring me to the vault.
With security positioned nearby.
“No heroics,” I warned.
He looked offended.
“I’m never heroic.”
“You’re absurdly heroic.”
“I’m practical.”
“You once drove through a snowstorm because your sister’s babysitter cancelled.”
“That was logistics.”
I smiled.
“Everything romantic is logistics to you.”
Marco looked at me.
“Not everything.”
The smile vanished.
His thumb brushed my hand.
The air changed.
Then Isabella appeared at the terrace doors.
“I knew it!”
We separated instinctively.
Too late.
She pointed at us.
“That was not fake hand-holding.”
Marco sighed.
“Good morning, Isabella.”
“Mom owes me five hundred dollars.”
I stared.
“You bet on us?”
“The entire family did.”
“On what?”
“When you’d stop pretending.”
Marco looked horrified.
“There is something fundamentally wrong with all of you.”
Isabella kissed his cheek.
“We learned from you.”
Despite the danger, breakfast became strangely normal.
Family members argued about pastries.
Lucia’s children chased each other through the kitchen.
Sofia kept smiling at Marco and me until Marco threatened to leave.
For perhaps an hour, I could imagine what belonging there might feel like.
That frightened me more than danger.
Because the week would still end.
Wouldn’t it?
At eleven, Marco and I drove toward the vault.
It was located beneath an old private bank building owned indirectly by Ricci Maritime.
Security followed discreetly.
The vault required my identification.
My mother had apparently been listed as beneficiary decades earlier.
The bank manager looked confused when he saw the records.
“Nobody has accessed this box since 1999.”
“Who opened it?” I asked.
“Vittorio Ricci.”
My hands turned cold.
The box was enormous.
Inside were property deeds, company documents, photographs, and several sealed envelopes.
One bore Marco’s name.
Another bore mine.
We looked at each other.
“You first,” he said.
I opened mine.
Again, my mother’s handwriting.
Emily, if you are here, then someone has forced the past back into your life. Do not trust the ledger alone. The ledger can be forged, altered, or stolen. Trust the recordings.
Recordings.
At the bottom of the box were six cassette tapes.
Marco opened his letter.
His face changed as he read.
“What?”
He handed it to me.
The letter wasn’t from my mother.
It was from Vittorio.
Marco, someday you may learn things about this family that make you question the man I was. Question me. Question everything. But never punish yourself for my choices. Katherine Carter saved my life, your mother’s life, and yours. If her daughter ever needs protection, give it freely. If you ever care for her, do not confuse guilt with love. They are not the same thing.
I read the final paragraph twice.
Marco stared at the floor.
“Your father knew.”
“He anticipated something.”
“That you might care about me.”
“He knew me.”
I touched Marco’s arm.
“You don’t love me because you owe my mother.”
His eyes lifted.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Because guilt doesn’t explain why you remember photographs of kittens.”
He laughed softly.
For the first time that day, he looked lighter.
We collected the tapes.
Then Marco found one final envelope.
No name.
Inside was a photograph.
Anthony Bellini.
Older than the photographs from the nineties.
The date printed on the back was only six months ago.
“He’s alive,” Marco said.
I stared.
“Everyone thought he was dead?”
“Or disappeared permanently.”
A voice came from the vault entrance.
“He tried.”
Ross.
Marco stepped in front of me.
Security immediately moved.
Ross raised his hands.
“I’m not your enemy.”
“You stole the ledger.”
“No.”
“You disappeared.”
“To follow the man who did.”
“Who?”
Ross looked toward the hall.
Then at me.
“Anthony Bellini’s son.”
My skin chilled.
“Who is his son?”
Ross hesitated.
“You know him.”
Marco’s expression hardened.
“Name.”
Ross lowered his voice.
“David Mercer.”
I knew the name.
Everyone in Marco’s organization did.
David Mercer had been Marco’s attorney for nine years.
His most trusted legal adviser.
The man who had reviewed my employment contract.
The man who had access to almost every confidential company record.
Marco took out his phone.
“Where is he?”
Ross shook his head.
“Calling won’t help.”
“Why?”
“Because he isn’t after the ledger anymore.”
“What is he after?”
Ross looked at the tapes.
“Those.”
Marco’s security surrounded us.
For one second, I felt safe.
Then every light in the vault went dark.
Someone shouted.
Emergency lights flickered red.
Marco grabbed my hand.
“Stay with me.”
A metallic door slammed somewhere.
When full lighting returned thirty seconds later, Ross was gone.
So were three of the tapes.
Marco still held the other three.
One was labeled:
BELLINI — CONFESSION.
Another:
MATTEO RICCI.
And the third:
FOR EMILY ONLY.
We returned to the estate under heavy security.
Marco wanted to listen to Bellini’s tape first.
I wanted the one addressed to me.
In the end, we chose mine.
The cassette player clicked.
Static filled the room.
Then my mother’s voice came through the speakers.
I had forgotten the exact sound of it.
For nineteen years, I had survived on memories.
Suddenly she was there.
“Emily, sweetheart…”
I began crying before she finished my name.
Marco took my hand.
The recording continued.
“If you are listening to this, I’m probably gone. There is something about your childhood that Thomas and I agreed never to tell you unless absolutely necessary.”
I wiped my eyes.
My mother inhaled shakily on the tape.
“When you were born, someone tried to take you from the hospital.”
Marco’s grip tightened.
“The attempt failed because Vittorio stopped it. Anthony Bellini believed I had copied his financial records, and he thought threatening you would make me surrender them.”
I couldn’t breathe.
“But Vittorio made a promise that night. He promised nobody connected to Bellini would ever come near you again.”
Static.
Then my mother said:
“There was one witness to everything. Someone Vittorio trusted completely.”
The tape crackled.
“His name was David Mercer.”
Marco froze.
“That’s impossible.”
Mercer would have been young then.
But old enough.
My mother continued.
“David helped us escape. I trusted him.”
A pause.
“God help me, I trusted him.”
Marco looked at me.
The tape continued.
“If David ever tells you Anthony Bellini is his father, he is lying.”
Every person in the room went still.
Ross had just claimed exactly that.
My mother’s voice dropped.
“David Mercer is not Bellini’s son.”
Static.
“He is Vittorio Ricci’s son.”
Marco stood so abruptly the chair fell backward.
And my mother’s final words came through the speakers:
“Marco, if you’re listening with Emily, then you need to understand something before David does something unforgivable.”
May you like
“He has spent his entire life believing the Ricci family stole the future that should have belonged to him.”
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