Chapter 5 - The Mafia Boss's Former Fiancée Tried to Take the Maid's Baby Away by Claiming the Child Belonged to the Moretti Family—But When Dante Discovered a Forged Custody Document, He Realized Someone Was Planning to Use Little Nora to Steal His Empire
The first document arrived at breakfast, folded inside a cream-colored envelope with a gold seal.
It was addressed to Dante Moretti, but my daughter's name appeared on the first page.
Nora Cruz. Eight months old. Alleged descendant of Alessandro Moretti.
My coffee turned cold while Detective Park read the papers. The petition requested temporary guardianship of Nora pending an investigation into her parentage. Victoria Romano was listed as the proposed guardian. A lawyer claimed that I had endangered my daughter by bringing her to work and leaving her unattended in a supply room.
Every line contained enough truth to hurt.
I had brought Nora to work. I had left her alone. I had been frightened and desperate, and I would regret that decision for the rest of my life. But I had never consented to Victoria taking her, and the petition contained statements I had never made.
“She's going to take my baby,” I said.
Detective Park set the papers down. “A petition isn't an order. You have the right to respond, and no one can simply remove Nora because a wealthy person filed paperwork.”
Dante stood beside the window, his jaw tight. “Victoria doesn't even know Nora.”
“That's relevant,” Park replied. “So is whether the claims are accurate. We'll need independent legal counsel for Ms. Cruz, not someone employed by you.”
I looked up. “Why independent?”
“Because your interests and Mr. Moretti's interests may not always be identical. Nora needs an advocate whose only job is protecting her and your parental rights.”
Dante nodded. “Agreed.”
That answer surprised me. I had expected him to offer money and instructions. Instead he asked whether I wanted a referral to a family-law attorney. I did. By noon I had spoken to a woman named Andrea Kim, who explained the process patiently and refused to let Dante pay her without my consent. I accepted help with the retainer as a documented loan, because I wanted to know exactly what I owed and to whom.
Andrea read the petition twice. “There's something strange here,” she said. “They've attached a declaration from a purported hospital social worker. It says you admitted you couldn't care for Nora.”
“I never said that.”
“Do you recognize the name?”
I leaned closer. The declaration was signed by Elaine Mercer.
I had seen that name before. It was printed on the badge of the woman in the gray coat.
My hands began to tremble. “She came to the clinic. Then she came to the apartment. She tried to get into the bathroom while I was holding Nora.”
Andrea's expression sharpened. “We need to tell the court and the detective immediately.”
The badge had been fake. Rush University Medical Center confirmed that no employee named Elaine Mercer worked in its social services department. The number listed on the declaration belonged to a disconnected office in a building owned by one of Victoria's companies. Andrea prepared a response with the records and asked the court to examine the authenticity of the evidence.
For the first time in days, I felt the ground under my feet. Fear was still there, but it had become something I could work against.
That afternoon, Dante asked me to join him in his study. The room smelled of leather and cedar. Above the fireplace hung a portrait of Alessandro Moretti, a stern man with Dante's eyes and a silver watch chain. Marco stood beside a table covered in old trust agreements.
“I owe you an explanation,” Dante said. “My father built two separate family trusts. One holds legitimate business assets. The other was meant to provide for children born outside his marriage. Gabriel was the first beneficiary.”
“And Nora could be the second?”
“If Gabriel is her father, yes. But the trust doesn't make her anyone's property.”
“Then why would Victoria want guardianship?”
“Because the trustee can vote shares on behalf of a minor beneficiary in certain circumstances. Someone revised the trust's governance documents last year. Those revisions give a guardian influence over a block of shares large enough to decide who runs Moretti Holdings.”
I looked at the stacks of paper. “They want Nora's name, not Nora.”
“That's what the evidence suggests.”
Marco pointed to a signature page. “The amendment bears Alessandro's signature seven years after his death. It can't be authentic.”
“Unless somebody found a blank page he signed earlier,” I said.
Both men looked at me. I shrugged. “My mother used to work as a cleaner in an office. She told me never to sign blank forms. People can put anything above your name.”
Dante's expression changed at the mention of my mother. “What was her full name?”
“Marisol Cruz. Why?”
He turned to Marco. “Check my father's household payroll. Before the year Gabriel supposedly died.”
“Already doing it,” Marco said. “There are missing years.”
I remembered the photograph of my mother in a Moretti archive. I had spent my whole life thinking she was a hotel housekeeper who died when I was seventeen. She had never mentioned wealthy clients or criminal families. I wondered how many things she had hidden because she believed silence would keep me safe.
In the evening, Nora slept on my chest while I called my former landlord to arrange payment for the apartment I had left. I didn't want to lose the little home we had made. Dante overheard part of the conversation and offered to cover the rent. I declined.
“I'm not refusing because I think you're dangerous,” I told him. “I'm refusing because I need to know I can leave here without losing everything.”
He considered that. “Then let me help you find a safer apartment when you're ready. You can choose it, and the lease will be in your name.”
“Maybe,” I said. “After we know who is trying to take her.”
His mouth lifted slightly. “You don't make negotiations easy.”
“I have a very demanding boss.”
For one brief moment, we laughed.
The next morning, Andrea called with news. The court had declined to grant emergency guardianship on the documents presented and scheduled a hearing for the following week. The judge had ordered the parties to preserve all records connected to the application. It was not a final victory, but it meant Nora would remain with me while the allegations were examined.
I carried her into the garden and let the cold autumn air brush her cheeks. She reached toward a falling leaf and laughed. Watching her, I thought of how small her world should have been: milk, naps, sunlight, and the reassuring sound of my voice. Instead strangers were calculating how many corporate votes she might represent.
A woman approached from the far path. Beatrice Vale, the house manager, wore a gray cardigan and carried a folded blanket. She had worked for the Moretti family for more than twenty years and spoke to me with a politeness so exact it felt like a wall.
“It's getting chilly,” she said. “The child should be inside.”
“She's wearing a sweater.”
“Mr. Moretti would be upset if she became ill.”
“Mr. Moretti isn't her father.”
Beatrice's face tightened. “No. Of course not.”
She set the blanket on a bench and walked away. A moment later I noticed a tiny embroidered crescent moon in one corner. It looked like an ordinary nursery decoration, except that the thread was the same deep blue used on the old photograph from the trust archive.
I took the blanket to Detective Park instead of putting it on Nora.
Park examined the stitching. “Could be a coincidence.”
“Beatrice received an envelope from Sloane. She's been watching Nora since we arrived.”
“We'll ask her about it.”
Beatrice denied receiving anything except a donor's thank-you note. She offered to show her office. The office was immaculate. Her desk held schedules, linen inventories, and a framed photograph of Alessandro Moretti shaking hands with a young man I recognized immediately.
Gabriel.
Except the photograph was dated five years earlier, and he wore a name badge reading Daniel Bell.
I leaned closer. “Why is Gabriel using another name?”
Beatrice moved the frame. “That was an employee.”
“He's Nora's father.”
“I wouldn't know.”
“You've worked here twenty years. You know more than you're saying.”
Her hands clenched around the frame. For an instant she looked older than she had in the garden.
“Some secrets keep children alive,” she whispered.
“Others put them in danger,” I answered.
She opened her mouth, then looked toward the door. Marco had entered. Beatrice straightened immediately and said she had nothing further to add.
That night, Detective Park received confirmation that Elaine Mercer's supposed social-worker license number belonged to a retired nurse in another state. Andrea filed the information with the court. Marco found a transfer of two hundred thousand dollars from a Romano-controlled consulting company to a shell company that had paid the apartment building's maintenance contractor.
The money trail connected the woman who stalked Nora to Victoria's business network, though it did not yet prove Victoria had ordered the intrusion.
Dante read the report in silence. “I let her into my life,” he said at last. “I gave her access to my home.”
“You didn't give her permission to threaten a baby,” I replied.
He looked at me. “You should hate me for bringing this to your door.”
“I hate what happened. That's different.”
The doorbell rang shortly after midnight.
No visitor should have reached the front entrance without being cleared by the gate. Marco checked the camera and went still.
On the doorstep stood Victoria Romano, flanked by two lawyers and a uniformed officer who looked uncomfortable. She held a document in a plastic sleeve.
“Mr. Moretti,” she said into the intercom, “we have an updated order concerning the child.”
Andrea was called immediately. She asked for a photograph of the document before anyone opened the door. The seal appeared authentic, but the judge's name was misspelled and the case number belonged to a commercial dispute.
“It's forged,” Andrea said over speakerphone. “Do not surrender the child. Call the court clerk and the police supervisor.”
Dante pressed the intercom. “Victoria, leave the property.”
She smiled into the camera. “You're making a mistake. You can't keep a Moretti heir hidden forever.”
I stood behind him holding Nora, my heart pounding. “She's my daughter,” I said loudly enough for the microphone to catch it. “Not your inheritance.”
Victoria's smile vanished.
Then she leaned close to the camera and said something that made Dante grip the edge of the desk.
“Ask your father why Gabriel was never supposed to have children.”
“Alessandro is dead,” Dante said.
“His instructions aren't.”
The gate cameras went black. The lights flickered once, then returned. Marco's radio crackled with reports of a vehicle forcing the service entrance. Dante moved toward the hallway, but Detective Park stopped him.
“Stay with the witnesses. Let the officers handle the intrusion.”
For once, he listened.
Police intercepted the vehicle before it reached the house. The driver fled on foot and was arrested near the garden wall. In the back seat investigators found a child car seat, a forged medical transport form, and a printed schedule of Nora's naps.
Someone had prepared to take her that night.
While the officers processed the scene, Beatrice came to my door. She looked pale and carried a small brass key on a chain.
“I can't keep quiet anymore,” she said. “If you want to know why Gabriel's funeral was a lie, you must open the room beneath Alessandro's study.”
“Why tell me now?”
May you like
Her eyes filled with tears. “Because I helped them once. And I will not help them take another child.”
Before Beatrice left, I asked one more question. “When you say you helped them once, do you mean you helped hide Gabriel?” She shook her head. “I helped deliver a letter. I was told it would keep a young woman safe.” “Which young woman?” Her eyes moved to the photograph of my mother on the mantel. “Marisol,” she said. “I was told she had already died. Then I saw you working at the restaurant, and I understood that the story had never been finished.” She reached into her pocket, took out a small folded receipt, and placed it beside the key. The receipt came from a florist in the suburbs. Someone had paid for white lilies to be delivered to my mother's grave every year, including the year after Gabriel disappeared. The payer's name had been blacked out, but the delivery instructions were unmistakable: Leave no card. Do not tell the daughter. I had visited that grave every birthday. I had never seen lilies there. Whoever sent them knew exactly when I would be away.
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