Chapter 2 - MY HUSBAND BEGGED ME TO BELIEVE HE NEVER SABOTAGED MY TREATMENTS—BUT WHEN I AUDITED FOUR YEARS OF IVF PAYMENTS, I FOUND A DEAD EMBRYO, A BRIBED DOCTOR, AND MY FATHER’S NAME ON THE ACCOUNT THAT PAID THEM BOTH
Bianca could not run quickly.
At fourteen weeks pregnant, she was not physically limited enough to explain it.
Fear did.
We moved through the narrow service passage behind the estate walls while voices echoed through the study.
“Where does this go?” she whispered.
“Old wine cellar.”
“You knew this was here?”
“I grew up in houses designed by paranoid Italians.”
Despite everything, she almost laughed.
I didn't.
The passage ended behind a storage rack.
We emerged into the cellar.
I texted Rachel.
NEED CAR. SOUTH SERVICE GATE. NOW.
Then Adriano called again.
I ignored it.
Bianca stared at me.
“He's trying to help.”
“He can wait.”
“He loves you.”
I turned.
“Do not say that to me.”
She went quiet.
Good.
We reached the south gate seven minutes later.
Rachel Kim arrived in a black Mercedes.
She took one look at Bianca.
“Oh.”
“Drive.”
She did.
No questions until we were moving.
Then:
“Where?”
“Your office.”
“It's five in the morning.”
“Congratulations on your work ethic.”
Rachel looked at me through the mirror.
“You're terrifying when you're angry.”
“I've had a productive evening.”
Bianca started crying again.
Rachel glanced at her.
“Is she—”
“Yes.”
“Adriano's?”
“No.”
Rachel's eyebrows rose.
“Long story.”
“Apparently.”
By six thirty, we had copied everything.
Rachel read the trust documents first.
Her expression became progressively worse.
“Isabella.”
“What?”
“This draft is not legally effective.”
“I know.”
“But somebody expected it to become effective.”
“Yes.”
“If Bianca's child were acknowledged by Adriano, and you became incapacitated…”
“They could petition for control.”
“Temporarily.”
“Temporary control is enough to move assets.”
Rachel nodded.
“Especially with Moretti attorneys.”
Bianca whispered:
“I didn't know.”
I looked at her.
“You knew enough.”
She lowered her eyes.
That became our rule.
Bianca was allowed fear.
She was allowed regret.
She was not allowed innocence she did not possess.
I called Dr. Levin at seven.
She agreed to meet privately before clinic hours.
When she saw the reports, she went pale.
“I've never seen these.”
“Adriano's male-factor reports?”
“No.”
“But your notes say his results were acceptable.”
“Because Dr. Baines sent us a summary.”
She opened the clinic system.
Then frowned.
“What?”
“Several laboratory documents were uploaded under external-provider credentials.”
“Can you trace them?”
“Yes.”
She clicked.
Samuel Baines.
Moretti physician.
The same doctor who concealed Adriano's diagnosis.
My anger became cold.
“What about my embryos?”
Dr. Levin hesitated.
“What specifically?”
“Were all viable embryos transferred or preserved?”
“Yes.”
“Show me.”
She did.
Cycle one.
Two embryos.
Failed implantation.
Cycle two.
Three.
One transfer.
Two frozen.
Cycle three.
One genetically normal embryo.
Transfer failed.
Cycle four—
Dr. Levin stopped.
“What?”
“There should be two frozen embryos remaining from cycle two.”
“Should?”
“They're listed as discarded.”
My body went numb.
“Why?”
“Patient request.”
“I never requested that.”
Dr. Levin stared.
“The authorization has your electronic signature.”
“Show me.”
She did.
I knew immediately.
Not mine.
Similar.
But whoever forged it used my formal signature.
I had stopped signing that way years earlier after my wrist injury.
“When?”
“Eighteen months ago.”
“Who accessed them?”
She checked.
“Dr. Baines requested transport for genetic reevaluation.”
“Where?”
“Private lab.”
“Which?”
Her face changed.
“Moretti Biomedical Services.”
Adriano's family owned it.
I stood.
“I need everything.”
“I'll have to speak to legal.”
“Then speak quickly.”
Dr. Levin looked at me.
“Isabella, if someone disposed of embryos without your consent—”
“I know what it is.”
She stopped.
I had spent four years blaming my body.
Meanwhile someone had literally removed chances I had created.
Not all the failures were sabotage.
Biology remained biology.
But two embryos were gone.
Without my consent.
That was enough.
Adriano waited outside Rachel's office.
I nearly walked past him.
“Bella.”
“No.”
“Please.”
Rachel stepped between us.
“She said no.”
Adriano looked at me.
His face had changed overnight.
No sleep.
No arrogance.
Good.
“Vittorio is gone.”
“Not my problem.”
“He knows you have the documents.”
“Still not my problem.”
“He may come after you.”
“Then give his name to federal investigators.”
Adriano's jaw tightened.
“It's complicated.”
I laughed.
“There it is.”
“What?”
“The sentence men in your family use when legality becomes inconvenient.”
His face tightened.
“I'm trying to protect you.”
“By lying?”
“No.”
“For four years, you knew your fertility diagnosis.”
“Yes.”
“And let me undergo treatment.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
His eyes closed.
“Because I was ashamed.”
There it was.
Not conspiracy.
Not at first.
Vanity.
Male pride.
He had watched me absorb needles because admitting his infertility wounded his identity.
“I thought IVF would work anyway.”
“That makes it better?”
“No.”
“Did you ask Baines to hide the report?”
“Yes.”
“Did you ask anyone to destroy embryos?”
His head snapped up.
“No.”
“Did you know they were destroyed?”
“No.”
“Did you sleep with Bianca?”
Pain crossed his face.
“Yes.”
“Then we're done.”
“Bella.”
“We can investigate the rest without pretending there is still a marriage.”
He swallowed.
“I understand.”
That was almost worse than begging.
I stepped closer.
“Do you?”
“No.”
His voice broke.
“But I'm trying to.”
Bianca appeared behind Rachel.
Adriano saw her.
His face hardened.
“Who is the father?”
Bianca shook.
“I don't know.”
Adriano looked sick.
I did not comfort him.
He had believed for fourteen weeks that Bianca carried his child.
That loss was real.
So was what he had done to create the situation.
Both could exist.
“Vittorio arranged donors,” Bianca whispered.
“Donors?”
Adriano stared.
“I was drugged at a party.”
Silence.
My anger shifted.
Bianca continued.
“I woke up in a hotel room. Vittorio told me I'd slept with someone and later showed me video of me going upstairs with a man. I don't remember him.”
Rachel immediately stepped forward.
“Stop.”
Bianca looked at her.
“Why?”
“Because what you're describing may be sexual assault.”
Bianca froze.
“I…”
“You need an attorney and medical support.”
“I thought I cheated.”
Rachel's voice softened.
“You may have been deliberately incapacitated.”
Bianca began shaking.
I caught her before she fell.
My body moved before my resentment could object.
She clung to me.
Then whispered:
“I still slept with Adriano later.”
“I know.”
“I chose that.”
“I know.”
“I don't want this to erase it.”
“It doesn't.”
She cried against my shoulder.
Complicated truth.
Again.
Bianca underwent testing.
The pregnancy was healthy.
Paternity testing from maternal blood became possible.
Rachel arranged it through an independent lab.
Meanwhile, I audited payments.
Money had always calmed me.
Numbers did not apologize.
They either reconciled or they didn't.
Moretti Biomedical received $1.8 million through a Romano maintenance subsidiary.
That made no sense.
I traced authorization.
Vittorio.
Then another payment.
$650,000 to Dr. Samuel Baines.
Then $240,000 to a fertility-lab administrator.
Then an older account.
Six years earlier.
Two weeks before my father died.
Payment:
$3.2 million.
Recipient:
S. BAINES MEDICAL CONSULTING.
Authorized by:
CARLO ROMANO.
My dead father.
I stared.
Why would Dad pay Adriano's physician?
I pulled bank archives.
The signature was wrong.
Tiny difference.
Carlo always crossed the R in Romano backward.
This signature didn't.
Forgery.
I called Rachel.
“Someone used Dad's account.”
“When?”
“Before his death.”
“For what?”
“Baines.”
Silence.
Then:
“We need his medical records.”
Carlo Romano had died from a stroke.
Dr. Baines certified it.
My stomach turned.
That evening, Adriano arrived with something unexpected.
Not flowers.
Not apologies.
A ledger.
“I gave federal prosecutors access.”
I stared.
“To what?”
“Everything involving Vittorio.”
“Everything?”
“Yes.”
“That could implicate you.”
“Yes.”
I looked at him.
“Why?”
“Because you're right.”
“About?”
“I keep saying things are complicated when I mean I'm afraid of consequences.”
That was the first useful thing he had said.
“What happens now?”
“Investigators audit Baines.”
“And your businesses?”
“If they find crimes, they find crimes.”
“You could lose everything.”
Adriano looked at me.
“I already lost the thing I was trying to protect by lying.”
I did not soften.
“Don't turn accountability into a romantic gesture.”
His eyes lowered.
“Fair.”
“This doesn't win me back.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
He placed the ledger down.
“I'm not giving it to you so you'll forgive me.”
“Then why?”
“Because Vittorio has spent thirty years using our family fear to control everyone.”
He looked at Bianca.
“And because if he arranged what happened to her, I want him prosecuted.”
Not killed.
Prosecuted.
I noticed.
Two days later, the paternity report arrived.
Bianca called me.
Her voice shook.
“Bella.”
“What?”
“They found a match.”
“To who?”
She could barely speak.
“Not Adriano.”
“I know.”
“No.”
She started crying.
“You don't understand.”
“Bianca.”
“The lab matched the fetal DNA to a relative in a commercial database.”
My stomach tightened.
“Who?”
“Second-degree relationship to the Moretti family.”
Silence.
Then I understood.
“Vittorio?”
“No.”
She sobbed.
“His son.”
Matteo Moretti.
Adriano's cousin.
Thirty-five.
Married.
Father of two.
And chief financial officer of Moretti Logistics.
I sat down.
“Did you sleep with Matteo?”
“No.”
“Do you remember him at the party?”
“I remember him bringing me champagne.”
Everything changed.
Rachel called police.
Bianca gave a statement.
Matteo disappeared before investigators reached his house.
That evening, Dr. Baines disappeared too.
Then the forensic review of my father's medical file arrived.
His death certificate said stroke.
But archived bloodwork taken twelve hours before death showed anticoagulant levels so abnormal that an independent physician said deliberate medication interference had to be considered.
Carlo Romano had not simply suffered a stroke.
Someone may have caused it.
And the doctor who signed the death certificate had received millions from an account bearing my father's forged signature.
I called Adriano.
“Where is Vittorio?”
“I don't know.”
“Find him legally.”
“I know.”
“No armed men.”
“I know.”
“Adriano.”
“I heard you.”
For once, he did.
But Vittorio found me first.
At 11:46 that night, a photograph arrived on my phone.
Rachel Kim sat tied to a chair.
Behind her stood Matteo.
The message read:
BRING THE ORIGINAL ROMANO TRUST TO PIER 19.
COME ALONE.
OR YOUR LAWYER DIES KNOWING YOU CHOSE MONEY OVER HER.
A second message followed.
And Isabella—
Ask Adriano what he was doing the night your father died.
My blood went cold.
Because I knew exactly where Adriano had told me he was that night.
With me.
May you like
Except now, for the first time in six years, I remembered something.
He had disappeared for almost three hours.
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