Chapter 5 - THE WOMAN NAMED ISABELLA
The photograph arrived at 5:42 a.m.
Vincent stared at it for nearly a minute.
A woman stood outside a Manhattan bookstore.
Twenty-seven years old.
Dark hair.
Brown eyes.
A familiar expression.
There was no doubt.
She was family.
Marcus stood beside him.
“Her name is Isabella Hayes.”
Vincent couldn't stop staring.
“Does she know?”
“No.”
“Does Thomas?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“We're not sure.”
Vincent looked at the photograph again.
Thomas had spent years searching for the Moretti heir.
Now he had found her.
The question was why he hadn't taken her.
Marcus answered before Vincent asked.
“He's protecting her.”
Vincent frowned.
“Thomas doesn't protect people.”
“Apparently, he does.”
“Why?”
Marcus placed another photograph on the desk.
Thomas standing outside the bookstore.
Isabella inside.
He had been watching her.
For months.
Vincent studied the photograph.
“Maybe he needs her.”
“For the trust?”
“Probably.”
Vincent shook his head.
“No.”
Marcus looked at him.
“What?”
“If Thomas wanted the trust, he would have taken her.”
“Then what does he want?”
Vincent looked at the photo.
“Her loyalty.”
That afternoon, Vincent went to Manhattan.
He didn't take the entire security team.
Only Marcus.
And David.
David had insisted on coming.
Vincent hated that.
But he needed someone who understood Thomas.
David sat in the passenger seat.
Neither man spoke for several miles.
Finally, David said:
“You shouldn't meet her yet.”
Vincent looked at him.
“Why?”
“She'll be overwhelmed.”
“She deserves the truth.”
“Yes.”
“Then why are you telling me not to tell her?”
“Because truth without context can destroy people.”
Vincent laughed bitterly.
“You sound like everyone else.”
David looked down.
“I know.”
They arrived at the bookstore.
Vincent saw her immediately.
Isabella was sitting near the window.
Reading.
She looked peaceful.
Completely unaware that her entire identity was about to change.
Vincent entered.
The bell above the door rang.
Isabella looked up.
“Can I help you?”
Vincent stopped.
He couldn't speak.
She looked exactly like his mother.
The same eyes.
The same slight tilt of the head.
He finally said:
“Isabella Hayes?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Vincent Moretti.”
Her expression changed.
“Moretti?”
“Yes.”
She closed her book.
“Why are you here?”
“I need to talk to you.”
“About?”
“Your family.”
She laughed nervously.
“My family died years ago.”
Vincent sat opposite her.
“That's what you were told.”
Her expression hardened.
“Who are you?”
“Your uncle.”
Silence.
She stared at him.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“My parents were Sarah and Daniel Hayes.”
“They raised you.”
“They were my parents.”
“They loved you.”
“Then what are you saying?”
Vincent took out the photograph.
He placed it on the table.
Isabella stared.
A baby.
A hospital.
A bracelet.
Her expression changed.
“That's not me.”
“No.”
“Then who?”
“Emma.”
She looked confused.
“Who is Emma?”
Vincent couldn't answer.
Not yet.
“You were switched at birth.”
Isabella's face went pale.
“What?”
“You were born at St. Catherine's.”
“I was born in Chicago.”
“Yes.”
She stood.
“This is insane.”
“I know.”
“You expect me to believe that some stranger walks into my bookstore and tells me I'm someone else?”
“No.”
Vincent stood.
“I expect you to demand proof.”
She stared at him.
“Do you have it?”
“Yes.”
He handed her a folder.
She opened it.
Birth records.
DNA results.
Hospital logs.
Photographs.
Every document led to the same conclusion.
Isabella Hayes wasn't Isabella Hayes.
Her real name was Isabella Moretti.
She was Elena Moretti's daughter.
And Vincent's niece.
She sat down.
Tears filled her eyes.
“My parents…”
“They were innocent.”
“What happened to them?”
Vincent hesitated.
“They died protecting you.”
She covered her mouth.
“Who did this?”
“People inside my family.”
She looked at him.
“Why?”
“Money.”
She laughed through tears.
“Of course.”
Then she looked at the final page.
Her face changed.
“What is this?”
Vincent looked.
A DNA comparison.
Isabella.
Emma.
99.99% biological relationship.
Isabella whispered:
“Who is Emma?”
Vincent answered softly.
“Your twin sister.”
The room disappeared around them.
Isabella stared at him.
“I have a sister?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“At my house.”
“Does she know?”
“No.”
“Does she know about me?”
“No.”
Isabella looked toward the window.
For a long moment, she said nothing.
Then:
“I want to meet her.”
Vincent nodded.
“You will.”
A shadow moved outside.
Vincent immediately turned.
Thomas stood across the street.
He looked directly at Isabella.
Then he raised one hand.
Not threatening.
Warning.
Vincent stepped toward the window.
Thomas mouthed two words.
Don't trust him.
Then he disappeared.
Isabella looked at Vincent.
“Who was that?”
Vincent didn't answer.
She understood.
“That was Thomas.”
“Yes.”
“Why was he watching me?”
“I don't know.”
A phone rang.
Vincent answered.
Marcus's voice came through.
“Sir.”
“What?”
“We found something else.”
“Tell me.”
“Thomas isn't trying to take Isabella.”
Vincent frowned.
“Then what?”
“He's trying to protect her from someone else.”
“Who?”
Marcus hesitated.
“Margaret.”
Vincent's eyes narrowed.
“My mother?”
“No.”
“Margaret Moretti.”
Vincent's blood went cold.
His aunt.
The woman who had just humiliated Emma.
The woman who had known the truth.
The woman who had insisted Emma wasn't family.
Suddenly, everything looked different.
Margaret hadn't been afraid of Emma.
She had been afraid of Isabella.
Vincent looked at Isabella.
“Come with me.”
“Where?”
“To meet your sister.”
She stood.
Before leaving, she looked back at the bookstore.
Her old life.
Her old name.
Her old identity.
She didn't know it yet.
But by the time the sun rose tomorrow—
May you like
two sisters who had been separated for twenty-seven years would finally stand face to face.
And one of them would discover why Margaret Moretti had spent three years trying to erase a little girl's place at the family table.
