Chapter 9 - THE BABY IN ROOM 412
St. Catherine’s had renovated twice since the twins were born.
The maternity wing smelled different.
The walls were brighter.
But my body remembered.
I remembered the pain.
The fear.
No Luca holding my hand.
No husband waiting outside.
Just Tasha, a terrified resident, and a nurse named Rebecca who had been unusually kind.
Rebecca Lane.
I had never forgotten her.
“She stayed after her shift,” I told Luca as we walked toward medical administration. “She held Noah when I was too weak.”
Luca said nothing.
His face was stone.
A hospital attorney met us.
Normally, medical privacy laws would have stopped us cold.
Normally, Luca Moretti did not arrive with three attorneys and a court order.
Two hours later, we had personnel records.
Rebecca Lane had worked at St. Catherine’s for six years.
Then quit suddenly.
Eight days after my twins were born.
No forwarding address.
No explanation.
Luca looked at the employment form.
“Emergency contact.”
The attorney shook his head.
“Outdated.”
“Give it to me.”
An hour later, Luca’s security team found the address.
A small house in Joliet.
We drove there ourselves.
I don’t know why.
Maybe some truths are too ugly to send employees to collect.
A man opened the door.
Mid-sixties.
Suspicious eyes.
“Can I help you?”
Luca showed him Rebecca’s picture.
“Do you know this woman?”
The man’s expression changed.
“My sister.”
My heart jumped.
“Where is she?”
He studied us.
“Who are you?”
I stepped forward.
“My name is Nia Carter.”
His face went pale.
That was enough.
“You know me.”
He backed up.
“I don’t want trouble.”
“Where is Rebecca?”
“She’s dead.”
I felt the words like a blow.
“When?”
“Five years ago. Cancer.”
Luca’s voice stayed cold.
“Did she have a child?”
The man looked away.
“Yes.”
My heart pounded.
“A boy?”
He stared at Luca.
“How did you know?”
Luca’s eyes closed for half a second.
“How old?”
“Eight.”
I stopped breathing.
The man rubbed his face.
“Look, I don’t know what Rebecca got involved in. She told me she was a surrogate.”
“Where is the boy?” I asked.
“With his father.”
“Who is his father?”
“She never said.”
Luca stepped forward.
“Give me his name.”
“I just told you—”
“No. The man raising him.”
The brother hesitated.
Then walked inside.
We followed.
He returned with a framed photo.
Rebecca stood beside a young boy.
Dark hair.
Dark eyes.
My knees almost gave out.
He looked like Noah.
Not exactly.
But enough.
Enough to make my heart hurt.
Beside Rebecca stood a man I recognized.
Luca recognized him too.
His entire face changed.
“No.”
I looked at him.
“Who is that?”
He didn’t answer.
“Luca.”
His jaw clenched.
“That’s Adrian.”
“Who?”
“My cousin.”
I stared at the picture.
Adrian Moretti.
A man who had spent years working overseas for Moretti Global.
A man Celeste had always treated like a second son.
Luca took the photograph.
“Where does Adrian live?”
Rebecca’s brother looked at him.
“Last I heard?”
He hesitated.
“Italy.”
That evening, Luca’s security chief called.
Adrian had entered the United States three days earlier.
He was in Chicago.
And according to hotel records, he had checked out forty minutes after Luca saw the twins at the restaurant.
He was running.
Then Luca’s phone buzzed.
A text from an unknown number.
May you like
One sentence.
Stop looking for the boy, or Nia loses the twins she already has.
