Chapter 3 - Isabella Teresa Romano
Isabella was twenty-eight.
Not twenty-seven.
Not twenty-nine.
That mattered immediately.
Antonio Moretti disappeared from Teresa Romano’s life twenty-eight years earlier.
The arithmetic fit.
That did not prove paternity.
Isabella had been raised in Worcester County.
Public schools.
Community college.
Two years studying accounting before leaving school when Teresa developed a serious autoimmune illness.
No criminal record.
No history of approaching the Morettis.
No tabloid posts.
No lawsuits.
No attempts to claim inheritance.
She had worked:
Hotel front desks.
Administrative support.
Catering.
Temporary household staffing.
For the last year she worked mostly through an agency called Beacon Domestic Services.
The Belladonna gala shift paid thirty-eight dollars an hour because it required formal service experience and ended after midnight.
She accepted because she needed the money.
Not because she had engineered a reunion.
That needed saying.
Isabella had known she would be working at Belladonna Mansion.
She had not known Antonio Moretti once owned it.
“How?”
I asked.
We sat in Dana Whitcomb’s office two days later.
Isabella had her own lawyer.
Not Dana.
An attorney named Claire Nolan from a nonprofit legal clinic agreed to advise her initially until the situation became clearer.
Teresa sat beside Isabella.
I sat across.
No bodyguards.
No Vivian.
Isabella answered:
“My mother told me she worked for a family in Boston.”
“Never said Moretti?”
Teresa looked down.
“No.”
“Why?”
“We’re getting there.”
I hated that sentence.
Isabella continued:
“I knew Moretti Group owned the mansion now. I didn’t know my mother had anything to do with them.”
“And the pendant?”
“Mom gave it to me when I turned sixteen.”
“What did she say?”
“That it belonged to someone who once cared about her.”
I looked at Teresa.
She did not meet my eyes.
Isabella touched the pendant.
“I’ve worn it for years.”
“Every day?”
“Most days.”
“Why hidden under uniform?”
“Because jewelry isn’t allowed while serving food.”
Reasonable.
She had tucked it beneath the collar.
The loose button exposed it.
No prophecy.
No intentional reveal.
Then Claire Nolan asked Isabella:
“Did Vivian DeMarco know your name before the gala?”
Isabella frowned.
“She called me Isabella twice.”
“Had you introduced yourself?”
“I assumed someone told her.”
“Did you have a name tag?”
“No.”
Temporary staff names appeared on event rosters.
Vivian organized the gala.
Possible.
Then Isabella said:
“She asked me earlier if Romano was my married name.”
Every person at the table looked at Vivian’s absence.
“What did you say?”
“No. It’s mine.”
“Then?”
“She asked where my family was from.”
“What did you tell her?”
“Massachusetts.”
“Mother’s name?”
“No.”
So Vivian knew Romano.
Maybe nothing more.
Then Isabella remembered:
“At around six, she saw the chain.”
“The pendant?”
“Not the pendant. Just chain.”
“What happened?”
“She told me necklaces were against uniform policy.”
Reasonable.
“Then?”
“She said, ‘People should be careful wearing things that don’t belong to them.’”
Silence.
That was less reasonable.
Isabella had assumed wealthy-person condescension.
Maybe it was.
Maybe Vivian already suspected.
We still needed evidence.
I had spent my life making conclusions quickly.
This time the most important word was:
May you like
maybe.
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