Chapter 3 - The Cold Truth
The snow was falling in thick, heavy sheets, blanketing my black SUV in a layer of white powder.
I strapped Renata into her booster seat in the back. Her hands were still icy cold, her velvet sleeves damp and clinging to her skin. I reached into the glove compartment, pulled out a pair of clean cashmere gloves I kept for driving, and slid them over her small, raw hands.
“Are we going home, Daddy?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Yes, sweetheart. We’re going home.”
I turned on the engine, cranking the heat up to maximum. As warm air flooded the cabin, I watched her through the rearview mirror. She was staring out the tinted window at the towering wrought-iron gates of the DeLuca estate as they swung open, letting us out onto the winding country road.
She looked so fragile, yet she had survived a house full of vipers.
Now that I knew the truth, the physical resemblance hit me with the force of a freight train. Renata didn’t have my dark, near-black Italian eyes; she had Julian’s hazel eyes—flecked with gold and amber. She had his messy, wavy chestnut hair, and the tiny, stubborn dimple on the left side of her chin whenever she concentrated.
For four years, I had believed that fate had brought her to me. I had looked at her in that quiet adoption agency office and felt an immediate, inexplicable bond—a pull toward a little two-year-old girl who had sat quietly in the corner, clutching a wooden block.
It hadn't been fate. It had been blood calling to blood.
And my own parents had used my grief for Julian to orchestrate their grotesque corporate fraud.
My hands clenched around the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white. My phone was vibrating incessantly in the cup holder.
*Carmen DeLuca (12 Missed Calls)*
*Hector DeLuca (4 Missed Calls)*
*Paola DeLuca (3 Missed Calls)*
I tapped the screen and blocked every single one of their numbers.
“Daddy?” Renata’s voice drifted from the backseat.
“I’m right here, Renata.”
“Did Uncle Julian die because of me?”
I hit the brakes, pulling the SUV off to the snowy shoulder of the deserted road. I shifted into park, unbuckled my seatbelt, and turned around completely in my seat to face her.
“Renata, look at me,” I said firmly, taking her small gloved hands in mine. “Who told you that?”
Her lower lip trembled, tears welling in her large hazel eyes. “Grandma. She said it last month when you were in London. She said Uncle Julian was weak, and that bad things happened to him because he was selfish. And she said... she said I was a reminder of his mistakes, and that if I didn't wash the floors and do what she said, I would end up like him.”
A hot, suffocating wave of rage surged through my chest.
Carmen had not just treated her like a servant; she had systematically psychologically tortured a six-year-old child while I was overseas securing international contracts. She had deliberately broken Renata’s spirit, ensuring she would remain timid, obedient, and terrified of speaking up.
“Listen to me very carefully, Renata,” I said, staring directly into her eyes, making sure my voice was steady, clear, and absolute. “Your Uncle Julian was the bravest, kindest man I ever knew. He loved beautiful things. He loved art, he loved music, and if he were here right now, he would love you more than the entire world. Do you hear me?”
She sniffed, wiping a tear away with the oversized cashmere glove. “Really?”
“Really. You are not a mistake. You are the greatest blessing this family ever had. And nobody—not Grandma, not Grandpa, not anyone on this earth—will ever speak to you like that again. I promise you that on my life.”
She nodded slowly, a tiny, tentative smile breaking through her tear-streaked face. “Can we get hot chocolate?”
A soft laugh escaped my throat, breaking the heavy tension in my chest. “We can get hot chocolate with extra marshmallows, pancakes, and whatever else you want. And then we’re going to open all the presents waiting for you at our penthouse.”
“Real presents? Just for me?”
“Dozens of them.”
I leaned over and kissed her forehead, then put the car back into gear and accelerated toward Manhattan.
While Renata watched the snow swirl against the glass, I dialed Gabriel Vance’s private emergency line using the hands-free console.
He answered on the second ring.
“Mauricio,” Gabriel’s crisp, seasoned voice came through the car’s speakers. “I assumed you received the dossier. I didn't expect you to call until tomorrow.”
“I received it,” I said, keeping my voice low so Renata wouldn't be alarmed. “And my mother admitted to it before I walked out.”
Gabriel let out a slow, heavy breath. “God help them. Mauricio, you need to understand the magnitude of what we’re dealing with here. What Carmen and Hector did isn't just civil fraud or breach of fiduciary duty. If the unsealed records from St. Jude are accurate, this involves cross-state custodial trafficking, falsification of vital records, and unlawful restraint.”
“Where is Elena?” I asked, cutting straight to the core of the wound. “My mother told me she took a settlement and left the country five years ago. Did she?”
Gabriel hesitated on the line. The silence lasted three long, agonizing seconds.
“Gabriel,” I warned, my tone darkening. “Tell me.”
“Elena didn't take a settlement, Mauricio,” Gabriel said quietly. “According to the private investigator we retained to audit the St. Jude files... Elena never left the state. She was admitted to a private psychiatric facility in Westchester forty-eight hours after giving birth. Her medical proxy and legal guardian at the time of commitment was an entity controlled directly by your father.”
The interior of the SUV felt like an absolute vacuum.
“They locked her away,” I whispered, horror washing over me.
May you like
“We believe so,” Gabriel replied. “Mauricio, we need to meet tonight. If your parents realize the paper trail leads to Westchester, they will attempt to move her before we can obtain a writ of habeas corpus. We have less than twenty-four hours to act.”
***
