Isabella sat rigid in the leather chair across from Matteo's massive desk, her heart pounded so hard she thought it might burst from her chest. The morning sunlight streamed through the tall windows, but it did nothing to warm the chill between them.
"I swear I'm not lying to you." Her voice trembled. "Why would I fake something like this?"
Matteo's face remained hard as stone. "People have infiltrated powerful families before. My father trusted too easily. I won't make the same mistake."
"I'm not"
"Enough." Matteo stood abruptly. "If you truly don't remember, then certain items should mean nothing to you."
He walked to a safe hidden behind a painting on the wall, twisted the dial, and pulled out a worn cardboard box. When he placed it on the desk between them, Isabella couldn't help but notice how carefully he handled it.
"These belonged to Antonio Moretti." Matteo's voice softened slightly. "If you're really his daughter, let's see how you react."
Isabella stared at the box. "And if nothing happens?"
"Then we'll know you're either an exceptional liar or truly don't remember." He pushed the box toward her. "Open it."
With shaking hands, Isabella lifted the lid. Inside lay a man's watch, a folded handkerchief with embroidered initials AM, a small leather-bound notebook, and a stack of photographs.
She picked up the watch first. The glass was cracked, and the hands were frozen at 10:43. Something about it made her stomach twist, but no memories surfaced.
"Nothing?" Matteo asked, watching her face closely.
"It feels... sad. But I don't know why."
Isabella set down the watch and picked up the photographs. The first showed a younger Matteo's father—she recognized him from portraits in the mansion—standing next to a tall, dark-haired man with kind eyes.
"Is that... him? My father?" she whispered.
Matteo nodded once. "Antonio Moretti. My father's most trusted advisor and friend."
Isabella stared at the face that should have meant everything to her. She searched her heart for recognition, for love, for anything—but felt only emptiness. Tears of frustration welled in her eyes.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I want to remember. I do."
She flipped through more photos: the two men at what looked like a christening, a birthday party, a wedding. In some, a beautiful woman with Isabella's eyes stood beside Antonio, smiling.
"That's your mother, Antonia," Matteo said quietly. "She disappeared after your father was killed."
Isabella traced her mother's face with a trembling finger. "She's beautiful."
When she reached the bottom of the pile, she froze. Hidden beneath the photos was a small, tattered teddy bear. Its once-white fur was gray with age—and stained dark brown across one side.
The moment her fingers touched it, pain exploded behind her eyes.
Screaming. The smell of gunpowder, a man's voice"Run, Isabella! RUN!"
Her breath came in short gasps as the room around her dissolved.
She was small, clutching this very bear to her chest, hiding under a bed. Heavy footsteps with men searching. Her father's blood on her hands, on her bear, as she'd tried to wake him.
"No, no, no..." Isabella moaned, doubling over.
"Find the girl! Don't leave witnesses!"
The bear slipped from her fingers as her body began to shake violently.
Running through dark halls. A secret door as per her father's instructions: "If anything happens, go to the basement, third tile from the left, push hard."
"Isabella!" Matteo's voice sounded far away.
Her eyes rolled back as more fragments tore through her mind. Strong arms caught her before she hit the floor. Through the haze of pain, she felt herself being lifted against a warm chest.
"Get the doctor back here now!" Matteo barked at someone.
As darkness claimed her, Isabella heard herself mumbling words that made no sense to her conscious mind: "The third tile... push the tile..."
When she opened her eyes again, Isabella was lying on a couch in Matteo's office. Dr. Russo bent over her, checking her pulse. Matteo stood by the window, his back to them, tension visible in every line of his body.
"What happened?" Isabella whispered.
"You had a seizure," Dr. Russo said gently. "After a strong memory response. It's not uncommon when traumatic memories resurface."
Matteo turned around. For once, his face wasn't cold or angry—he looked troubled, almost guilty.
"The bear," Isabella said, struggling to sit up. "It was mine. I was holding it when... when my father was shot." The words felt strange in her mouth, but she knew they were true.
"Yes," Matteo said quietly. "Antonio was murdered in your family home."
Isabella's eyes widened. "You knew? All this time, you knew who I was?"
Dr. Russo touched her arm. "Isabella, no one knew for certain. You were presumed dead in the fire that destroyed your home that night."
"Fire?" More images flashed—heat, smoke, running through the garden.
Matteo moved closer. "Antonio Moretti was my father's best friend and right-hand man. They grew up together. When my father was killed six months ago, I started looking into his murder and Antonio's. The patterns were too similar."
Isabella stared at him. "So I'm not just a random debtor to you. You took me from Vincenzo because you suspected who I was."
A muscle in Matteo's jaw twitched. "I wasn't sure. But when I saw you, something felt... familiar."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because if you were faking your amnesia, telling you would give you power. Information is leveraged in my world." His eyes darkened. "And if you truly didn't remember, I needed genuine reactions to confirm your identity."
Isabella turned away, anger and confusion warring inside her. "So I was an experiment? A puzzle to solve?"
"You were a potential threat or a potential ally," Matteo said flatly. "The daughter of Antonio Moretti could be either."
Dr. Russo intervened. "Isabella needs rest now. This kind of memory shock is dangerous."
But Isabella had one more question. She looked directly into Matteo's eyes. "If I'm Antonio Moretti's daughter, why did your father's enemies want me dead? I was just a child."
Matteo's expression changed a flash of something like pain crossed his face before he could mask it.
"Because, Isabella," he said quietly, "our fathers were planning to change everything. And there are people who would kill to keep things exactly as they are."
Isabella stared at him, new questions forming. Before she could ask them, Matteo turned to leave.
"Rest," he ordered. "We'll talk more when you're stronger."
As the door closed behind him, Dr. Russo pressed something small and cold into Isabella's palm.
"Your mother wanted you to have this," she whispered. "I've kept it safe all these years."
Isabella looked down at a delicate gold locket on a thin chain. When she opened it, instead of a photo, she found a small brass key.
"What does it open?" she asked. Dr. Russo glanced nervously at the door. "I don't know but your mother said it would lead you to the truth."