Chapter 20 - The Ghost on the Line
Three months passed in idyllic bliss.
Spring arrived in New York with a burst of cherry blossoms in Central Park. The newly consolidated Vance-Moretti headquarters was running like a precision watch. Alessandro had retired fully to his villa in Hudson Valley, spending his days painting and gardening, his health completely restored.
My pregnancy was progressing beautifully; a slight, elegant bump was now visible beneath my tailored maternity dresses. Julian treated me like an ancient goddess, balancing his immense corporate duties with an unwavering devotion that made every headline in Manhattan swoon. We were the undisputed golden couple of the nation.
On a rainy Tuesday evening in April, Julian was downstairs in the tower’s private screening room finishing a quarterly videoconference with Tokyo.
I stood in the penthouse kitchen, pouring myself a glass of warm almond milk with honey, looking out through the floor-to-ceiling glass at the lights of Manhattan glittering like diamonds in the rain. Life was perfect. The past was buried beneath tons of concrete, prison bars, and corporate victories.
A soft buzz sounded from the marble entryway.
I frowned. Julian’s private security protocol meant no courier ever reached our penthouse doors directly without clearance from the lobby.
I walked toward the foyer. Sitting directly on the silver console table beneath the grand mirror was a sleek, matte-black padded envelope.
There was no delivery person. The heavy steel door of our private elevator had already closed.
My pulse picked up a strange, rhythmic flutter. I picked up the envelope. It was surprisingly heavy, cold to the touch, and had my personal maiden name written across the front in exquisite, fluid calligraphy: *Isabella Moretti.*
With trembling fingers, I opened the clasp and peered inside.
There was no letter. There were no financial documents, no flash drives, no photographs.
Inside lay an old, military-grade encrypted satellite phone.
Its dark screen was dormant. But the moment my fingers lifted the heavy device out of the packaging, the screen suddenly flared to life with blinding blue light.
An incoming call.
The caller ID displayed no number, no location, only a single word that made the blood freeze in my veins:
*MAMMA.*
My breath caught in my throat. My knees nearly buckled. "No... that's impossible. My mother died in a plane crash off the coast of Corsica twenty years ago..."
The phone vibrated violently against my palm, its harsh electronic hum reverberating through the silent foyer like a death knell.
Trembling uncontrollably, my thumb slid across the screen to accept the call. I brought the cold plastic to my ear.
"Hello?" I whispered, my voice barely audible above the pounding of my heart.
Static crackled on the line, sharp and metallic. And then, a woman’s voice spoke—a voice I had not heard since I was seven years old, a voice that had sung me lullabies in Florence, a voice that was undeniably, chillingly real.
"Bella," the woman whispered, her tone urgent, terrified, and breathless. "Bella, don't scream. Listen to me very carefully."
"Mamma?" I choked out, a cold tear spilling down my cheek. "How... how are you alive?"
"They staged the crash, Bella. Alessandro and his partners staged it to protect the secret," the voice said, the transmission wavering through heavy static. "I don't have much time. They’re tracking this signal."
"Who staged it? What secret?"
"Julian," my mother gasped, her voice trembling with absolute, desperate terror. "Bella, you have to get out of that penthouse right now. Julian Vance didn't marry you to save your empire. He was the one who paid for my plane to go down twenty years ago. The child you are carrying is—"
The call abruptly went dead.
At that exact second, the heavy steel door behind me swung open.
May you like
Julian stepped into the foyer, his hazel eyes locking onto the satellite phone in my trembling hand. His smile was gone. His eyes were as dark and unfathomable as the midnight sea.
"Who was that on the phone, Bella?" Julian asked softly, taking a slow step toward me.
