Chapter 6 - THE DAUGHTER LORENZO NEVER KNEW HE STOLE
-6
Beatrice did not cry.
Not immediately.
She stared at the notation beside Mara Gallagher’s name with a stillness that frightened me more than grief.
LV-12.
A code.
Two letters.
Two numbers.
Perhaps nothing.
Perhaps everything.
“Who is in Lorenzo’s family?” she asked.
I thought.
His parents were dead.
One younger sister, Emilia, living in Florida.
No brothers.
Lorenzo had never married.
No biological children.
But there was one person.
“Celeste.”
Luca looked at me.
“His goddaughter?”
“Not exactly.”
Celeste Vale had lived with Lorenzo from age six.
Official story:
Daughter of a distant cousin killed in an accident.
Lorenzo raised her.
She was now twenty-nine.
An attorney.
Elegant.
Brilliant.
Occasionally represented Bellini businesses but kept enough professional distance to claim independence.
I had known her since she was a child.
Beatrice was thirty-one.
If Mara had been an infant in 1996, she would be thirty now.
Close.
“Birth date?” Beatrice asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Find it.”
I used an offline laptop.
Celeste Vale.
Born September 18, 1996.
The Mara entry:
September 16, 1996.
Two days.
Beatrice sat.
“No.”
Luca looked at me.
“What was the cousin’s name?”
I searched memory.
“Antonio Vale.”
“Did he exist?”
“Yes.”
“Daughter?”
“I never met one before Celeste.”
“Wife?”
“Supposedly died too.”
“Convenient.”
I hated that word now.
We needed proof.
Not conclusions.
I contacted no Bellini investigator.
Instead, Beatrice remembered her mother kept a lock of Mara’s infant hair in an old family Bible.
Nora had told her it was all she had left.
If preserved, DNA might establish sibling relationship.
Celeste would require a sample too.
“That’s impossible,” Beatrice said.
“No.”
I knew Celeste.
She visited my mansion often enough.
Glasses.
Coffee cups.
Hairbrush in the guest suite when she stayed during long trials.
Obtaining DNA secretly carried legal and ethical issues I could not pretend away.
We needed a legitimate path eventually.
For now, we needed enough to know whether the theory deserved confrontation.
Beatrice shook her head.
“She thinks Lorenzo is her father.”
“He never called himself that.”
“Did she call him Dad?”
“When she was younger.”
Beatrice closed her eyes.
That finally caused tears.
“If she’s Mara…”
I understood.
Her sister had grown up in wealth.
Education.
Protection.
But built on a theft from her parents.
Daniel and Nora lived believing their baby died.
Lorenzo may have raised the child taken from them.
Why?
Leverage?
Punishment?
Or something even stranger?
Luca answered.
“Lorenzo couldn’t have done it alone.”
“Father.”
“Yes.”
“Why Gallagher?”
“Daniel wasn’t working for us yet.”
That mattered.
Mara’s transfer occurred years before Daniel joined a Bellini company.
Perhaps the abduction brought him into the system rather than the reverse.
Beatrice wiped her face.
“Dad took the accounting job because someone offered him information.”
“What?”
She remembered fragments.
Her parents fighting.
Daniel telling Nora:
“If I get inside, I can find out.”
As a child, Beatrice assumed they meant financial stability.
Maybe they had meant Mara.
Her father joined a Bellini-linked construction company because he suspected Bellini involvement in his daughter’s disappearance.
Years later, he found the ghost ledger.
That gave his story new meaning.
He wasn’t merely a conscientious accountant who stumbled into crimes.
He had spent years infiltrating the organization.
Exactly as Beatrice later did.
A family inheritance of investigation.
And death.
“We need Celeste.”
“No.”
Luca’s answer was immediate.
“Why?”
“If Lorenzo raised her, we don’t know what she knows.”
“She could be working with him.”
“Yes.”
I hated considering it.
Celeste was sharp.
She had represented us in regulatory matters.
If Lorenzo trusted anyone beyond me, it was her.
“Then we watch.”
Beatrice looked at me.
“You’re good at that?”
“I’ve survived this long.”
“Maybe because Lorenzo wanted you to.”
The words landed.
I could no longer assume survival proved skill.
Perhaps I was alive because I remained useful.
That afternoon, I returned to Chicago alone.
Beatrice stayed with Luca.
I entered the mansion as though nothing had changed.
Lorenzo arrived for dinner.
Celeste came too.
Coincidence?
Maybe.
Now nothing felt accidental.
She wore a black wool dress and carried two legal folders.
“Uncle Matteo.”
She kissed my cheek.
Uncle.
Not by blood, supposedly.
I studied her face.
Beatrice had lighter hair.
Different nose.
But around the eyes?
Something.
Or perhaps once suspicion enters, resemblance becomes easy to invent.
Lorenzo poured wine.
“Busy day?”
“Very.”
He smiled.
“Doctors keep you healthy?”
“Trying.”
Celeste looked between us.
“Inside joke?”
“No.”
I sat.
Dinner became a performance.
Lorenzo discussed construction permits.
Celeste explained an upcoming labor hearing.
I listened.
Then casually mentioned St. Jude Family Renewal.
Celeste’s fork stopped.
Barely.
Lorenzo did not.
“What about it?”
“I’m reviewing Foundation donations.”
“Why?”
“Waste.”
He shrugged.
“Cut them.”
Celeste asked:
“Why that charity specifically?”
I looked at her.
“I didn’t say specifically.”
Her expression shifted.
There.
She knew something.
“Just assumed.”
“Why?”
“Old Bellini connection.”
Lorenzo smiled.
“My cousin is suddenly interested in charity accounting.”
“I’m getting soft.”
He laughed.
Same joke.
Different room.
I watched Celeste.
“Did you ever visit St. Jude?”
“No.”
Too fast.
Lorenzo lifted his glass.
“Why interrogate the girl?”
Girl.
She was twenty-nine.
He still saw the child he raised.
I changed subject.
Later, Celeste stayed after Lorenzo left.
That surprised me.
She followed me into the study.
“You’re looking for Luca.”
Every muscle in my body stopped.
I turned.
She stood by the door.
Calm.
“Who told you?”
“No one.”
“Then why say it?”
“Because Lorenzo has been terrified for three days.”
I studied her.
“You call that terrified?”
“I grew up with him.”
Good answer.
“What does Lorenzo fear?”
“Someone found the old records.”
“Which records?”
She gave me a sad smile.
“If you’re going to lie, don’t make me do all the work.”
I said nothing.
Celeste closed the door.
“I know about Winter House.”
My hand moved toward the desk automatically.
Not for a gun.
For distance.
“When did you learn?”
“Six years ago.”
“From Lorenzo?”
“No.”
“My law school records.”
I frowned.
“What?”
“I needed my original birth certificate for bar-admission documentation.”
Her face hardened.
“The certificate Lorenzo gave me had inconsistencies.”
She investigated.
Found an amended adoption document.
Then a sealed file.
Then discovered her supposed parents, Antonio and Grace Vale, had never had a registered child.
“What did Lorenzo tell you?”
“That records were lost.”
“You believed him?”
“For five minutes.”
She reached into her bag.
A photograph.
Nora Gallagher.
Young.
Holding a newborn.
Beatrice’s mother.
My stomach turned.
“Where did you get this?”
“Lorenzo’s safe.”
“When?”
“Four years ago.”
“You know who she is?”
“I do now.”
Her voice broke for the first time.
“I think she was my mother.”
Not was.
If Mara was Celeste, Nora had been her mother.
“Have you tested?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Against whom?”
She had not known Beatrice existed?
Apparently she did.
“I found Daniel and Nora eventually. Both dead.”
She swallowed.
“Then I found Beatrice.”
“You’ve seen her?”
“Yes.”
“Does Lorenzo know?”
“I don’t think so.”
“She works in my house.”
“I know.”
I stared.
“Did you arrange that?”
“No.”
“Then why haven’t you spoken to her?”
Celeste looked toward the door.
“Because everyone who searches my birth records dies.”
The room became cold.
“How many?”
“Two.”
“A private investigator?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“A retired clerk from St. Jude.”
Deaths labeled unrelated.
One robbery.
One heart attack.
“Lorenzo?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you trust him?”
She looked at me.
“He raised me.”
Not an answer.
I understood too well.
“Does he love you?”
“Yes.”
“Did my father love Luca?”
Her face changed.
Exactly.
Love did not guarantee safety inside our family.
“What do you know about Beatrice taking food?”
Celeste frowned.
“Nothing.”
“Lorenzo does.”
“For whom?”
I watched her.
“My brother.”
She stopped breathing.
“Luca?”
“Yes.”
“He’s alive?”
The shock looked real.
Her hand covered her mouth.
“No.”
“You knew Winter House but thought he died?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Lorenzo said Luca was killed escaping.”
Another lie.
“He survived.”
Tears appeared in Celeste’s eyes.
“Where?”
“I’m not telling you yet.”
She nodded.
Fair.
Then she reached into her legal folder.
“I came tonight because I found this in Lorenzo’s office yesterday.”
A photocopy.
A transfer authorization dated twelve years earlier.
Luca Bellini.
Winter House intake.
My signature.
Salvatore’s.
Lorenzo’s.
But attached was another page I had never seen.
If subject remains noncompliant after six months, permanent closure authorized.
Signed:
SALVATORE BELLINI.
Below it:
LORENZO VALE.
And a blank line.
MATTEO BELLINI.
My signature was missing.
Father had intended me to sign Luca’s death authorization later.
I never did.
Celeste whispered:
“Whatever Lorenzo tells you, he needed your signature.”
“Why?”
“Family protocol.”
My father’s ridiculous obsession with blood legitimacy.
One Bellini could not permanently dispose of another without two senior family authorizations.
“Father signed.”
“Yes.”
“Lorenzo needed me.”
“Yes.”
“But Luca lived.”
“Because you never signed.”
Not because I saved him.
Because I never knew the paper existed.
Still, the absence mattered.
Then Celeste said:
“Lorenzo kept trying.”
“What?”
“To get your signature.”
“How?”
She opened another folder.
Old corporate documents.
Buried among insurance forms and restructuring agreements were clauses referencing final closure codes.
Places I had signed.
My blood turned cold.
“Are these authorizations?”
“No.”
She pointed.
“They’re attempts.”
Lorenzo had hidden Luca’s closure approval inside unrelated papers several times.
Each failed because my attorney revised sections or pages were replaced.
Luck.
Again.
My brother may have survived partly because paperwork went wrong.
Then I heard a floorboard outside the study.
Celeste heard it too.
We stopped.
I opened the door.
Empty hallway.
At the far end, a shadow disappeared around the corner.
We followed.
No one.
Then I returned to my desk.
My phone was gone.
Celeste stared at the empty space.
A second later, the mansion alarm activated.
Not burglar alarm.
Fire.
Smoke poured from the west corridor.
The corridor leading toward the wine cellar.
I ran.
By the time I reached the stairs, flames were already climbing the wall beside the hidden archive.
May you like
Lorenzo had stopped trying to learn what I knew.
He had begun destroying what could prove it.
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