Chapter 5 - What Dante Had Never Told Her
Arya didn’t speak to Dante for the rest of the evening.
Not because she believed he had hurt Samuel.
Dante had been a child when Samuel disappeared.
But he knew something.
That was enough.
She stood in the rose sitting room with her arms crossed while Dante remained near the fireplace.
“Tell me.”
“I was going to.”
“When?”
“When I knew exactly what happened.”
“You keep saying you respect me enough to tell me the truth.”
“I do.”
“Then prove it.”
Dante closed his eyes briefly.
“My father kept private journals.”
“Vittorio?”
“Yes.”
“I found them after he died.”
“When?”
“Five years ago.”
Arya’s heart pounded.
“And Samuel?”
“His name appears repeatedly.”
She waited.
Dante walked to a safe.
Inside were several worn notebooks.
He opened one.
“Samuel discovered Marcus was moving money through fake construction companies. He went to my father.”
“What did Vittorio do?”
“According to this, he believed Samuel.”
Arya blinked.
“Then why did Samuel disappear?”
“Because Marcus realized he’d been exposed.”
“Did Marcus kill him?”
Dante shook his head.
“No.”
“You sound sure.”
“I am.”
“Why?”
Dante turned the page.
“My father helped Samuel disappear.”
Silence.
Arya stared.
“What?”
“He arranged a new identity. A new city.”
“My father abandoned us?”
“He thought Claire was coming with him.”
“But she didn’t.”
“No.”
Dante handed over the journal.
Vittorio had written:
Samuel refuses to leave without Claire. Marcus watches both of them. Isabella believes Claire can be moved separately. We will send Samuel first, then Claire and the child.
Arya’s hands trembled.
“What happened?”
“Something went wrong.”
“Obviously.”
“Claire fled before Isabella could reach her. Eleanor took you. Samuel apparently believed Claire and the baby had been moved somewhere else.”
Arya’s eyes filled.
“He thought we were safe?”
“Yes.”
“And Claire thought he was dead.”
“Yes.”
“Marcus kept them apart.”
Dante nodded.
“For twenty-five years.”
Arya sank onto the sofa.
“My father could still be alive.”
Dante sat across from her.
“Yes.”
“Do you know where?”
“No.”
“But you looked.”
“For years.”
“Before meeting me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Dante hesitated.
“Because my father’s journals made it clear Samuel Mitchell had been one of the few people who tried to stop Marcus.”
Arya looked at him.
“And because?”
Dante lowered his eyes.
“Because my mother asked me to.”
Something inside Arya softened.
“When?”
“In one of her letters.”
“What did she say?”
“Find Samuel if you can. Tell him Claire survived. Tell him his daughter was safe.”
Arya covered her face.
For twenty-five years, four adults had been separated by fear and lies.
Samuel.
Claire.
Eleanor.
Isabella.
The person connecting all of it was Marcus.
“We find him,” Arya said.
Dante nodded.
“We find him.”
They did.
But not immediately.
It took two weeks.
Dante hired a private genealogical researcher rather than anyone connected to his family.
Arya insisted on participating.
One abandoned alias led to another.
Samuel Mitchell had become Samuel Mason.
Then Sam Mason.
Eventually, they found a small woodworking business in Oregon.
The website showed an older man standing beside a handcrafted table.
Arya stared at the photograph.
His eyes were hers.
Her hand flew to her mouth.
“That’s him.”
Dante stood behind her.
“Yes.”
Arya began shaking.
“What if he doesn’t want to know me?”
“He kept this.”
Dante pointed at something in the photograph.
On the wall behind Samuel hung a small framed picture.
A baby.
The image was blurry.
But beneath it was a handwritten name.
Arya.
She cried so hard Dante knelt beside her chair.
“He remembered me.”
“Yes.”
“He thought I disappeared.”
“Yes.”
“I want to call him.”
Dante gave her the phone.
Her hands shook too much.
“You do it.”
“Are you sure?”
“No.”
Dante dialed.
The call rang four times.
“Sam’s Woodworks.”
Dante looked at Arya.
She nodded.
“Mr. Mason?”
“Speaking.”
“My name is Dante Valentino.”
Silence.
Then the man’s voice changed.
“I don’t know anyone by that name.”
“You knew my father.”
The line remained silent.
“Vittorio Valentino.”
“I said I don’t know you.”
“Samuel.”
Arya started crying.
Dante continued.
“Claire is alive.”
A sound came through the phone.
Almost a breath.
Almost pain.
“What did you say?”
“Claire survived.”
“No.”
“She’s here.”
“No.”
“And so is Arya.”
The phone slipped from Samuel’s hand.
They heard it hit a surface.
Then nothing.
Arya grabbed the phone.
“Dad?”
The word felt strange.
“Samuel?”
A man began crying on the other end.
“Little bird?”
Arya froze.
“What did you call me?”
Claire gasped from across the room.
Samuel whispered, “I called you Little Bird the day you were born.”
Claire collapsed into tears.
That conversation lasted three hours.
Samuel flew to New York two days later.
Arya met him at a quiet private terminal.
She recognized him immediately.
He stopped twenty feet away.
Neither knew what to do.
Then Samuel smiled through tears.
“You look like your mother.”
Arya laughed.
“Which one?”
Samuel cried harder.
She ran to him.
The reunion with Claire was almost unbearable to witness.
Two people who had mourned each other for twenty-five years stood inches apart.
“Sam?”
“Claire.”
“You’re alive.”
“So are you.”
They embraced.
Eleanor joined them.
For the first time in Arya’s life, her family was not getting smaller.
It was growing.
And so was the child inside her.
Months passed.
Marcus’s financial crimes were exposed internally.
Dante’s attorneys froze his authority.
Arya formally received her ownership share.
She didn’t quit working immediately.
That confused everyone.
Sophia nearly dropped a tray when she discovered the maid she had mocked owned part of the estate.
Arya grinned.
“Still want me to clean the third-floor bedrooms?”
Sophia stared.
“No.”
“Good. I hate those stairs.”
Eventually Arya created a charitable foundation using part of her dividends.
Medical assistance for families with long-term illnesses.
Her first beneficiary was a woman whose insurance had denied treatment.
That choice made Eleanor cry.
Arya’s pregnancy progressed.
Dante attended every appointment.
Sometimes annoyingly.
He took notes.
He asked too many questions.
At seven months, Arya finally said, “If you ask the doctor whether hiccups are normal one more time, she may throw you out.”
“I’m being thorough.”
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“I can be both.”
That night, they sat among the roses.
Dante rested his hand near hers.
Not on her stomach until she guided him there.
The baby moved.
Dante froze.
“He kicked.”
“She.”
“He or she.”
“You think it’s a boy.”
“I think it’s a girl.”
“Why?”
Dante smiled.
“Because she already ignores me.”
Arya laughed.
Then Dante became serious.
“There’s something I need to ask.”
Her heart jumped.
He reached into his pocket.
Arya immediately said, “Dante.”
He stopped.
“If that’s a ring, don’t ask because I’m pregnant.”
“It isn’t.”
She blinked.
He pulled out a key.
“What is that?”
“The cottage beside your mother’s.”
“Why?”
“I bought it.”
“You own the estate.”
“Technically you own twenty-four percent of the estate.”
“Dante.”
“I want you to decide where you live. I want you to have something that is yours. No conditions.”
Arya stared at the key.
“You’re not asking me to move into your house?”
“I’m hoping someday you’ll want to.”
“But?”
“But I never want you wondering whether you stayed because you had nowhere else to go.”
Arya cried.
“You’re very annoying.”
“I’ve been told.”
She kissed him.
Three nights later, everything changed again.
Dante received a call at midnight.
He listened.
His face became pale.
“What happened?” Arya asked.
He ended the call.
“Marcus is gone.”
“Gone where?”
“No one knows.”
“And?”
Dante held up a document someone had delivered to his attorney.
Marcus had sold something before disappearing.
Not property.
Not shares.
Information.
A folder labeled:
ARYA MITCHELL — PATERNITY
Arya stared.
“What does that mean?”
Dante’s jaw tightened.
“I don’t know.”
But the following morning, an anonymous email arrived.
Attached was a medical document.
Arya opened it.
Her blood ran cold.
May you like
The report claimed Dante Valentino was not the father of her baby.
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