Chapter 4 - THE WOMAN IN THE PHOTOGRAPH
Ivy stared at the photograph until the edges blurred.
“My mother never met your wife.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
Her answer came too quickly.
She remembered her mother sitting at the kitchen table in their cramped apartment, sorting bills into neat piles. She remembered the hospital bracelet that had remained on her wrist for days after a long admission. She remembered the way her mother had become quiet whenever anyone mentioned the Bellandi name.
But she had never mentioned Carmine's wife.
Carmine placed the photograph on the desk.
“My wife, Elena, died in a car accident three years ago. The official report said she lost control on a wet road. The driver survived long enough to give a statement, then disappeared before the police could interview him again.”
“And you think my mother knew something?”
“I think someone believed she did.”
Ivy backed away from the desk.
“Why didn't you ask her?”
“I tried.”
The admission caught her off guard.
Carmine continued, “I sent a man to speak with her at the hospital. He reported that she was too ill to talk. Two days later, her records disappeared from the hospital system.”
“My mother was dying.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you talking about her like she was involved in some criminal scheme?”
“I am trying to understand why one of my men followed a dying woman.”
For once, Carmine did not sound like a boss issuing orders. He sounded like a man who had discovered a locked room in his own past.
Ivy picked up the photograph again.
“Where did you get this?”
“From Rocco's apartment. My security team searched it after he was detained.”
“Did you find anything else?”
Carmine hesitated.
That hesitation frightened her more than a direct answer.
“An old hospital visitor log,” he said. “Your mother's name appeared beside Elena's.”
Ivy closed her eyes.
She remembered the final weeks of her mother's life. The fever, the pain medication, the nights when she called Ivy by the wrong name. Once, shortly before she died, her mother had gripped Ivy's hand and whispered, If anyone asks about the woman in the blue coat, you never saw her.
Ivy had assumed the medication had confused her.
Now the memory returned with terrible clarity.
“Did your wife have a blue coat?” she asked.
Carmine went completely still.
“She did.”
“Did she ever give it to someone?”
He looked at her sharply.
“Why?”
“My mother said something about a woman in a blue coat. I thought she was delirious.”
Carmine moved to the window, staring into the pale gray morning.
“Elena owned a blue wool coat. It disappeared after the accident.”
Ivy could hear her own heartbeat.
“This doesn't mean my mother was involved.”
“No,” Carmine agreed. “It means we need to find out what she knew.”
A knock interrupted them.
Daniel entered with a sealed evidence bag.
“Sir, we found this in the east-wing linen closet. It was hidden behind a loose panel.”
Inside the bag was a brass key and a small folded note.
Carmine opened the note carefully.
Four words had been written in faded blue ink.
ASK IVY ABOUT THE MUSIC.
Carmine read it twice.
Then he looked at Ivy.
“Do you know what this means?”
She shook her head, but something inside her had begun to stir.
Music.
Her mother had loved old songs. She used to hum while cooking, and on difficult nights she would play a battered music box that had belonged to Ivy's grandmother.
After her mother died, Ivy had taken the box home.
She had never opened the false bottom.
“There's something I need to tell you,” Ivy said.
Carmine waited.
“My mother left me a music box. I've never examined it. It's in my apartment.”
“Then we'll retrieve it.”
“I can go alone.”
“No.”
Her eyes flashed.
“You don't own me.”
The words struck the room with unexpected force.
Carmine studied her, then slowly nodded.
“You're right. You can choose who accompanies you.”
She had expected an argument.
Instead, he handed her a phone.
“Call Mrs. Bennett. Ask her to come with you. Daniel will drive, but he'll stay outside unless you invite him in.”
Ivy took the phone.
It was the first time anyone in the estate had given her a choice without attaching a threat to it.
And that frightened her almost as much as Carmine's anger.
By noon, Ivy was standing in her apartment, staring at the small music box on her bedside table.
The box was made of dark walnut, its brass corners worn smooth by years of handling. A faded rose had been painted on the lid.
She lifted it.
The familiar melody began.
Then something clicked beneath the wooden base.
Ivy turned the box over and found a narrow seam she had never noticed.
Using the brass key from the evidence bag, she opened the hidden compartment.
Inside lay a folded letter, a photograph, and a small silver pendant.
The photograph showed her mother standing beside Elena Bellandi.
Both women were alive, smiling, and looking directly at the camera.
On the back, in her mother's handwriting, were the words:
If anything happens to me, tell Ivy the truth about her father.
Ivy's hands began to shake.
She unfolded the letter.
May you like
The first line stole the air from her lungs.
My darling girl, the man you believe is your father is not the man who gave you life.
