Chapter 7 - The Price of Being LovedBy sunrise, I had learned that the truth could be more exhausting than a lie.
A lie gave you something simple to hate.
The truth demanded that you reconsider everything.
I sat alone in the small sitting room adjoining the mansion's medical wing, holding the photograph of my mother and Brody. The image had been printed on ordinary paper, its edges worn and slightly yellowed. Whoever had taken it had kept it for years.
My mother was sitting in a hospital bed, her hair thinner than I remembered, her face marked by the illness that had eventually taken her life.
Brody stood beside her.
He was younger, clean-shaven, and wearing a suit that looked too expensive for the man I had known. His expression was serious, almost protective.
He looked like someone who belonged in that room.
That was what frightened me.
I had spent years believing I knew Brody's history. He had told me about growing up with an alcoholic father, about leaving school early, about working construction jobs until an injury forced him to stop.
He had told me that his mother died when he was young.
He had told me he had no family worth speaking of.
I had believed him because I had wanted to believe him.
Now I wondered whether the stories had been designed to make me feel sorry for him.
My phone lay on the table.
I had not answered the unknown number.
Instead, I had sent one message.
Who are you?
The reply had arrived almost immediately.
Someone who knows what your mother wanted you to understand.
Then another message.
Brody was not the first man sent to watch you.
I stared at the words.
A third message appeared.
He was simply the first one you loved.
I felt physically sick.
The door opened quietly.
Lorenzo stepped inside carrying two cups of coffee.
He looked as though he had not slept. His shirt was wrinkled, his hair disordered, and the cut above his eyebrow had been cleaned but not properly dressed.
He placed one cup on the table.
“Coffee. No pressure to drink it.”
I looked at him.
“How do you know I like coffee?”
“You complained yesterday that Mrs. Gable's idea of breakfast was a cup of lukewarm water.”
Despite everything, I almost smiled.
Then the expression disappeared.
Lorenzo sat across from me.
“Marco is looking into the messages. We may be able to identify the sender.”
“Do you think Brody killed my mother?”
“I don't know.”
“Do you think he was involved?”
“Yes.”
The directness hurt, but I appreciated it.
“Why would he do that?”
“Money. Fear. Loyalty to the wrong person. Sometimes people do terrible things because they convince themselves the consequences will be worse if they refuse.”
I looked at the photograph.
“That's what he told me when he disappeared. He said he was trying to save us.”
Lorenzo remained quiet.
“I used to think he was a good man who had made bad decisions,” I continued. “I thought if I loved him enough, he'd eventually become the person he promised to be.”
My throat tightened.
“I feel stupid.”
“You aren't stupid.”
“You don't know that.”
“I know what it feels like to mistake someone's affection for their character.”
I looked at him.
“Is that what happened with your mother?”
He considered the question.
“I don't know whether I ever understood who she was. Giovanni loved her. Salvatore loved her, in his own destructive way. Everyone has a different story about her, and each story serves the person telling it.”
He glanced at the photograph.
“I don't want to turn your mother into another weapon in a family argument.”
For the first time, I felt that someone understood the part of grief I had never been able to explain.
When my mother died, people had told me to remember the good times. They had told me she was in a better place. They had told me that time would make everything easier.
Nobody had told me that losing someone meant losing the chance to ask them the questions that mattered.
I would never know why she had hidden her past.
I would never know whether she had regretted it.
And I might never know whether the last years of her life had been shaped by fear.
“I want to speak to Brody,” I said.
Lorenzo's expression changed immediately.
“No.”
I put down my coffee.
“You told me I could make my own decisions.”
“You can. That doesn't mean I'll pretend every decision is safe.”
“I'm not asking you to pretend.”
“He has already used you to get information. He may try to manipulate you again.”
“Then I'll know what to expect.”
Lorenzo leaned forward.
“Emily, the man who abandoned you while you were pregnant may have been involved in your mother's death. I won't let you walk into another trap because you believe you owe him a conversation.”
“I don't owe him anything.”
“Then why do you want to see him?”
The question silenced me.
I looked down at my hands.
Because I wanted him to explain.
Because I wanted him to admit that some part of what we had shared was real.
Because I wanted to know whether the nights we spent talking in our tiny kitchen had meant anything to him.
Because I wanted to hear him say that he had not chosen me merely because someone had paid him to do it.
“I need to know whether I ever mattered to him,” I whispered.
Lorenzo's expression softened.
“Then we will find out. But not by putting you in a room where he controls the conversation.”
I looked at him.
“What do you suggest?”
“A recorded meeting. You can ask every question you want. Marco and an independent investigator will be present. You can end the conversation whenever you choose.”
I considered it.
“And you?”
“I'll stay outside.”
“Why?”
“Because you need answers, not another man telling you what to think.”
I studied him for a long moment.
Then I nodded.
“All right.”
Brody arrived at noon.
He had been taken into custody after the failed attack on the estate, though Lorenzo had refused to let Salvatore's men question him. He was escorted into a small interview room on the ground floor, wearing a borrowed shirt and dark trousers.
His face was bruised.
There was a bandage around his left hand.
But when he saw me through the glass, he smiled.
That smile almost broke me.
I had seen it across restaurant tables, from the other side of a crowded street, and in the doorway of our apartment when he came home late with an apology and a promise.
I had loved that smile.
Now I wondered how much of it had ever been real.
The interview room contained a table, three chairs, and a recording device. Marco stood outside the door with an investigator from a private legal firm who had agreed to document the meeting.
Lorenzo waited in the corridor.
I entered alone.
Brody stood immediately.
“Emily.”
I remained near the door.
“Sit down.”
He looked surprised.
Then he obeyed.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Finally, he said, “You look beautiful.”
I felt something inside me go cold.
“You don't get to say that.”
His expression faltered.
“I didn't mean—”
“Don't compliment me. Don't call me sweetheart. Don't tell me you missed me. I am here because I want answers.”
He swallowed.
“All right.”
“Did you know my mother?”
He looked down.
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Before I met you.”
My stomach tightened.
“Why?”
“Salvatore introduced me to her when I was younger. He said she had information that could help him resolve a problem with Matteo.”
“What kind of information?”
“Documents. Financial records. Names of people involved in the Palermo operation.”
“Did she know you were working for Salvatore?”
“At first, no.”
“And when she found out?”
“She threatened to expose me.”
I stared at him.
“So you stayed close to me because you wanted to silence her?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
He rubbed his hands together.
“Because I was supposed to find out whether she had hidden the original records. I thought you might know where they were.”
I laughed once.
“You dated me for information?”
“At first.”
The answer hurt more than I expected.
I sat down because my legs felt weak.
“At first,” I repeated.
Brody looked at me.
“I know how that sounds.”
“How does it sound, Brody?”
“Terrible.”
“No. It sounds like you are still trying to make yourself look better.”
He lowered his eyes.
“I didn't expect to fall in love with you.”
I stared at him.
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
He hesitated.
“I don't know exactly.”
“That isn't good enough.”
He took a breath.
“The night you told me about your mother. You said she had worked herself to death trying to keep you in school. You told me you hated people who used money to control others because you'd watched it happen to her.”
I remembered that conversation.
We had been sitting on the floor of our apartment because we couldn't afford a proper sofa. It had been raining, and the ceiling leaked into a saucepan beside the window.
Brody had held my hand while I cried.
I had thought that moment had brought us closer.
Now I didn't know whether he had been listening as a lover or collecting information as an agent.
“I told you that because I trusted you.”
“I know.”
“You used it against me.”
“I didn't mean to.”
“But you did.”
He looked as though he wanted to reach across the table.
He didn't.
“I loved you, Emily.”
I shook my head.
“You loved the version of me that was useful to you.”
“That isn't true.”
“Then why did you leave?”
His eyes filled with tears.
“Because Salvatore told me he knew about the baby. He said if I brought you to him, he would erase my debts and give us enough money to leave the country. I believed him.”
“You believed him over me.”
“I thought I could get you out safely.”
“You didn't even tell me what was happening.”
“I was afraid.”
“So was I!”
My voice cracked.
“I was afraid when the rent was overdue. I was afraid when I couldn't afford the medicine my doctor recommended. I was afraid when I realized I was going to have a baby and the man I loved had vanished.”
Brody closed his eyes.
“I know.”
“No, you don't.”
I leaned forward.
“You don't know what it felt like to wake up every morning and wonder whether I'd been abandoned because I wasn't worth staying for.”
He began crying.
For a moment, the sight stirred something familiar in me.
The instinct to comfort him.
The desire to tell him that everything would be all right.
Then I remembered the photograph of my mother in the hospital bed.
I remembered the years of secrets.
I remembered the messages.
I sat back.
“Did you have anything to do with my mother's death?”
Brody's tears stopped.
He looked at me.
“No.”
“Did you know she was in danger?”
“Yes.”
The answer landed like a blow.
“When?”
“Before she died.”
“Did you warn her?”
“I tried.”
“How?”
“I told her Salvatore had discovered that she was hiding the documents. She said she would handle it.”
“You let her face it alone.”
“I was twenty-two. I was terrified. Salvatore had people watching me. He said he would kill my family if I betrayed him.”
“You told me you had no family.”
“I lied.”
“About everything?”
He stared at the table.
“Not everything.”
I wanted to believe there was some part of our relationship that had been genuine.
But I was beginning to understand that genuine feelings did not make someone trustworthy.
A person could love you and still harm you.
A person could feel remorse and still refuse to take responsibility.
And a person could tell the truth about one thing while continuing to lie about ten others.
“Why did you come back?” I asked.
“Because Salvatore wanted the baby.”
“Why?”
Brody hesitated.
Then he reached into his pocket and removed a folded document.
“I found this in his private office. It's a copy of a legal trust established fourteen years ago.”
He slid it across the table.
I unfolded it.
The document referred to an unnamed child born to a woman connected to the Palermo operation. The child would inherit control of a substantial financial trust once the identity of the biological heir had been verified.
The amount was staggering.
I stared at the page.
“What does this have to do with me?”
“Your mother was listed as a potential guardian.”
My throat tightened.
“And the child?”
Brody looked at me.
“The document says the heir was born on the same day as a child recorded under a different name.”
I couldn't breathe.
“When?”
“Fourteen years ago.”
I looked up.
“That was the year my mother was pregnant with me?”
“Yes.”
The room seemed to move.
I was born fourteen years ago? No. The thought was wrong. I was twenty-seven. But the document's dates were clearly not referring to my birth. I looked closer and saw the date of the trust's creation: fourteen years earlier. The heir was a child whose identity had been altered after the Palermo attack.
I felt a surge of frustration.
“Then this has nothing to do with my pregnancy.”
“Not directly.”
“Then why does Salvatore care about my baby?”
“Because he thinks the old trust can only be accessed through a blood relative of the original heir. And he believes your baby may be connected to that line.”
I shook my head.
“Believes? Or knows?”
“I don't know.”
“You're asking me to accept that everyone has been lying to me for years because of a document you stole.”
“I'm telling you what I found.”
I pushed the paper back toward him.
“Then give it to the investigators. I am not going to let another man convince me that my body is the key to his fortune.”
Brody looked devastated.
“Emily, please. I know I don't deserve your trust. But I can still help you.”
“No.”
The word came out quietly.
He stared at me.
“You don't get to decide that you are useful to me now.”
I stood.
“I spent years trying to make your life easier. I lied to my friends for you. I covered your debts. I defended you when people warned me that something was wrong. I thought loving you meant standing beside you when things became difficult.”
My voice shook.
“But you didn't stand beside me.”
Brody began to cry again.
“I am sorry.”
“I believe you.”
Hope flashed across his face.
I continued.
“But being sorry doesn't give you another chance to hurt me.”
I turned toward the door.
“Emily.”
I stopped without looking back.
“Did any of it mean something to you?”
The question hung between us.
I could have told him that I would never know.
I could have said that he had destroyed every memory by making it impossible to distinguish affection from manipulation.
Instead, I gave him the only answer I could live with.
“It meant something to me.”
Then I left.
Lorenzo was waiting outside.
He did not ask what Brody had said.
He simply walked beside me until we reached the medical wing.
Only when the door closed did I allow myself to cry.
I sat on the edge of the bed and covered my face.
Lorenzo remained near the window.
He did not touch me.
He did not tell me to stop crying.
He waited.
After several minutes, I wiped my cheeks.
“I thought if I understood why he left, it would hurt less.”
“Did it?”
“No.”
I laughed weakly.
“It hurts differently.”
Lorenzo nodded.
“Sometimes understanding doesn't remove the pain. It only stops you from blaming yourself for it.”
I looked at him.
“Did you ever love someone who betrayed you?”
He was quiet for a long time.
“Yes.”
“Your mother?”
“No.”
He looked toward the window.
“My first serious relationship was with a woman named Sofia. She knew what my family did. She told me she could live with it. Then she began passing information to a rival organization.”
“What happened?”
“I discovered the messages before anyone was hurt. I ended the relationship. She left the country.”
“Do you hate her?”
“I used to.”
“And now?”
“Now I understand that I was so desperate to believe someone could love me without fearing my family that I ignored the signs when she stopped telling me the truth.”
He looked at me.
“I don't want to make that mistake again.”
I studied him.
“Does that mean you don't trust me?”
“No. It means trust has to be built, not demanded.”
For the first time since the night began, I felt my shoulders relax.
Then he said something I hadn't expected.
“I also owe you an apology.”
I frowned.
“For what?”
“For the way I treated you when we first met. I saw your injuries and immediately began investigating your life. I asked questions as if I had the right to know every detail. I decided that because my father trusted you, you must be involved in something.”
“You were trying to protect him.”
“That doesn't excuse everything.”
He moved closer, then stopped several feet away.
“I have spent years confusing control with protection. I thought if I knew everything, I could prevent anything from hurting the people I cared about.”
He looked down.
“Tonight, I've learned that I can know everything and still be wrong.”
I didn't know what to say.
I had expected Lorenzo Moretti to be ruthless, arrogant, and dangerous.
I had not expected him to admit when he was wrong.
It didn't erase what he had done.
It did, however, give me a reason to keep listening.
My phone vibrated again.
An unknown number.
I almost ignored it.
Then I saw the message.
The original hospital records have been found.
A second message followed.
Your mother left instructions for you.
I stared at the screen.
Lorenzo noticed.
“What is it?”
I handed him the phone.
He read the messages and immediately called Marco.
“Find the sender. I want to know where the records are.”
Marco answered through the speaker.
“We already have a lead. Dr. Russo found an encrypted file in Giovanni's old medical archive. It was created by Elena Moretti shortly before the Palermo attack.”
Lorenzo looked at me.
“Emily, I think your mother may have left something for you.”
My heart began to race.
“What?”
“A message.”
I stood.
“Then let's see it.”
The file took nearly an hour to decrypt.
We gathered in Giovanni's room, where Dr. Russo had arranged a small monitor beside the bed. Matteo stood near the door. Lorenzo sat beside his father, while I held the photograph of my mother in both hands.
When the file finally opened, a video appeared.
My mother sat in a chair beside a window.
She looked younger than I remembered her, perhaps in her early thirties. Her hair fell loosely around her face. There were shadows beneath her eyes, and she kept glancing toward the door.
For several seconds, she said nothing.
Then she looked directly into the camera.
“Emily, if you're watching this, I am sorry.”
I stopped breathing.
“I am sorry for the secrets. I am sorry for the things I didn't tell you. And I am sorry if the truth reaches you after I can no longer explain it.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“You have always believed that I worked too much because I wanted you to have a better life. That is true. But there is another reason I worked so hard.”
She paused.
“I was trying to keep you away from a family that would have used you to settle debts you never owed.”
Matteo lowered his head.
My mother continued.
“Fourteen years ago, I helped Elena Moretti and Matteo move a group of children out of Palermo. Their parents had been killed in a conflict between the families. Some of the children had relatives who wanted to claim them for political reasons. Others were in danger because of what their parents knew.”
She swallowed.
“We changed names. We arranged new guardians. We created records that would allow the children to grow up without being hunted.”
I looked at Matteo.
He nodded slowly.
My mother had not merely known him.
She had helped him save those children.
“One child was especially important,” she continued. “His father had been killed, and his mother had disappeared. The boy was the last known heir to a trust established by his grandparents. Several men wanted to use him to gain control of the money.”
She leaned closer to the camera.
“Emily, you were never meant to inherit that trust. You were meant to be protected from it.”
I felt a strange mixture of relief and confusion.
Then my mother said the words that changed everything.
“The trust was established to protect the children, not to enrich the families who survived them. If anyone tells you that your baby is the key to their fortune, they are lying.”
She took a breath.
“The truth about your pregnancy is separate from the truth about the trust. Do not let anyone confuse the two.”
Lorenzo looked at me.
For the first time, I felt that someone had spoken directly to the fear I had been carrying.
My mother continued.
“Brody was sent to observe you because he believed you might have access to information about the old records. I discovered what he was doing. I confronted him, and he promised to leave you alone.”
Her face tightened.
“He broke that promise.”
A tear slid down her cheek.
“If he has returned to your life, please remember this: love is not proven by what someone says when they are afraid of losing you. It is proven by what they do when they have the power to leave.”
I covered my mouth.
My mother looked toward the door again.
Then she turned back to the camera.
“There is one more thing you must know. Giovanni did not cause the attack in Palermo. He tried to stop it. He made terrible decisions, but he was not the person who betrayed us.”
She paused.
“The person who changed the convoy route was someone none of us suspected.”
The screen flickered.
My mother leaned closer.
“Emily, the name you need is—”
The video cut to black.
I stared at the screen.
“No.”
Marco checked the file.
“The recording is damaged.”
“Can you recover the rest?”
“I'm trying.”
I turned toward Giovanni.
He was crying.
His hand lifted weakly.
Four taps.
Then he pointed toward Matteo.
Matteo's face had gone pale.
Lorenzo stood.
“What is it?”
Giovanni tapped again.
Four times.
Then he pointed toward the door.
A moment later, the security alarm sounded.
Marco answered the radio.
His expression changed.
“Boss, we have a problem.”
“What now?”
“Salvatore has escaped.”
Lorenzo's jaw tightened.
“How?”
“The guard assigned to him was found unconscious. Salvatore took a vehicle from the east garage.”
“Where is he going?”
Marco hesitated.
Then he looked toward me.
“He's heading for the city hospital.”
My stomach dropped.
“Why?”
Marco checked the message on his phone.
“Because he knows the original hospital records are there.”
Lorenzo reached for his coat.
“Get the cars ready.”
I stood.
“I'm coming.”
He looked at me.
“Emily—”
“Those records concern my mother. I have the right to see them.”
For a moment, I thought he would refuse.
Then he nodded.
“All right.”
He turned toward Marco.
“Arrange a secure route. And contact the hospital. Tell them not to release any records without legal authorization.”
Marco hurried out.
I looked at the dark screen one final time.
My mother had tried to protect me from the Moretti family.
She had tried to protect me from Brody.
She had tried to protect me from a past I had never known existed.
But she had also left me with a choice.
I could spend the rest of my life running from the truth.
Or I could finally learn it.
I placed the photograph in my coat pocket and followed Lorenzo toward the door.
This time, I was not being dragged into the Moretti family's war.
May you like
I was choosing to find out how it had begun.
And I intended to make sure my child would never have to fight it.
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