Isabella couldn't sleep that night. Every time she closed her eyes, she heard Mrs. Russo's warning: "Trust no one."
She stared at the ceiling, watching shadows dance across the plaster. Somewhere in this house was the truth about her past, and everyone seemed to know it except her.
Around midnight, she heard voices in the hallway. Men talking in hushed tones. Isabella crept to her door and pressed her ear against it.
"...confirmed identity..."
"...fifteen years..."
"...dangerous if word gets out..." The voices faded as the men moved away. Isabella's heart pounded. They were talking about her. They had to be.
The next morning, Isabella was dusting the main staircase when she heard Matteo shouting in his office.
"What do you mean you're sure?" His voice carried through the heavy door. "I need more than assumptions!"
Isabella moved closer, pretending to clean the decorative table near his office.
"Yes, run the DNA test again," Matteo continued. "And find out everything about the adoption. Who handled it? Where did they find her? I want names, dates, everything."
A DNA test? Isabella's hands trembled as she continued dusting.
"No, we keep this between us for now," Matteo said. "Until we know for certain."
The door suddenly opened, and Matteo stepped out. He saw Isabella immediately, and his eyes narrowed. "How long have you been standing there?"
"I'm just cleaning, sir," Isabella said quickly.
Matteo studied her face carefully. "Come inside. Now." Isabella's stomach dropped, but she followed him into the office. He closed the door behind her and walked to his desk.
"Sit," he ordered, pointing to a chair.
Isabella perched on the edge of the seat, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.
"I'm going to ask you some questions," Matteo said, "and I want honest answers."
Isabella nodded. "Do you remember anything about your life before you were adopted? Anything at all?"
"I... sometimes I have dreams. But they don't make sense."
"What kind of dreams?"
Isabella closed her eyes, trying to organize the fragments in her mind. "A man reading to me in a big house with marble floors. Someone singing in Italian."
"What else?"
"Sometimes I remember being called a special name. Not Isabella." Matteo went very still. "What name?"
Isabella's head began to throb as she pressed her fingers to her temples. "I can't... it hurts when I try to remember."
"Try harder."
"I don't want to! Every time I remember something, my head feels like it's splitting open!"
Matteo walked around the desk and crouched in front of her chair. His eyes were intense, almost desperate.
"Isabella, this is important. The name someone used to call you does 'Principessa' mean anything to you?"
The word hit Isabella like a physical blow as images flashed through her mind a man's voice calling her his little princess, gunshots, screaming, running through dark hallways.
"Papa!" she gasped, her eyes flying open. "Papa, where are you?"
She was on her feet, looking around wildly. For a moment, she wasn't in Matteo's office. She was five years old again, hiding in a closet while men shouted and glass broke.
"Principessa, stay hidden," a man's voice whispered urgently. "No matter what happens, don't come out."
"Isabella!" Matteo's voice brought her back to the present. He was holding her shoulders, his face concerned.
Isabella was shaking as tears streaming down her face. "Someone used to call me that. Papa used to call me his little princess."
"Who was your papa?"
"I don't know! I can't see his face!" Isabella pulled away from Matteo, pacing the room. "But I remember his voice. And I remember being so scared. There were men with guns, and Papa told me to hide."
Matteo watched her carefully. "What happened then?"
"I don't know. Everything went black. The next thing I remember, I was in the hospital, and Clara and Giovanni were there." Isabella stopped pacing and looked at him. "Why are you asking me these things? What do you know about my past?"
Before Matteo could answer, there was a sharp knock on the door as Rafael entered without waiting for permission.
"Boss, we have a problem," he said urgently. "Someone's been asking questions about the girl. In the city."
Matteo's face hardened. "What kind of questions?"
"About a missing Moretti child. Someone's offering a lot of money for information." Isabella felt the blood drain from her face. Moretti. Like the man in the photograph.
"Double security," Matteo ordered. "And I want to know who's asking questions."
"Already on it, Boss."
Rafael left, and Matteo turned back to Isabella. She was staring at him with wide, frightened eyes.
"Isabella, I need you to listen to me very carefully," he said. "You're in danger. The less you remember right now, the safer you are."
"But I need to know"
"No." His voice was firm. "You need to trust me. Can you do that?" Isabella wanted to argue, but something in his eyes stopped her. Behind the coldness and control, she saw genuine concern.
"Okay," she whispered.
Matteo's phone rang as he glanced at the caller ID and his expression darkened further.
"I have to take this. Go to your room and stay there. Don't come out until I tell you."
Isabella nodded and headed for the door.
"Isabella," Matteo called after her as she turned back.
"Whatever happens, don't try to contact your adoptive family. It could put them in danger too."
Isabella's heart sank. She hadn't realized how much she'd been counting on hearing Clara's voice until that option was taken away.
She left the office and hurried toward the stairs, but not before she heard Matteo answer his phone.
"Yes, I'm listening," he said. Then, after a pause, "How long have you known the Moretti girl was alive?"
Isabella ran the rest of the way to her room, her heart pounding. She was a Moretti. But what did that mean? And why did it put her in so much danger?
She locked her door and sat on her bed, staring out the window at the gardens where she'd walked with Luca. Everything she thought she knew about herself was a lie.
But if she was a Moretti, and if Antonio Moretti in the photograph was her father, then that meant...
Isabella's eyes widened as the pieces clicked together. Matteo hadn't brought her here by chance. He knew exactly who she was.