Chapter 8 - THE CRAYON DRAWING
“Alive?” I whispered, staring at the faded crayon drawing in Lorenzo’s trembling hands. “After twenty years?”
Lorenzo didn’t answer immediately. He traced the wobbly letters of his childhood nickname, Enzo, his thumb brushing over the old wax.
“The Bellamys orchestrated it,” Lorenzo said, his voice dropping to a lethal, terrifying calm. “Arthur Bellamy couldn't break my father financially, so he broke him emotionally. He took Isabella. And Cassandra kept this drawing as a trophy, just like my uncle’s rosary.”
He looked up at the security guard.
“Get the cars ready. We are going to the federal holding facility. I am going to have a conversation with Arthur Bellamy before the FBI transfers him.”
“Lorenzo, wait,” I said, grabbing his arm. “If Bellamy has kept her hidden for twenty years, he won’t give up her location easily. He’ll use her to negotiate a plea deal.”
“He won’t have teeth left to negotiate with when I’m done,” Lorenzo growled.
“Listen to me,” I urged, my mind racing. “Cassandra brought this drawing into the house for a reason. Look closely at the paper.”
Lorenzo frowned and handed it to me.
I held the drawing up to the bright desk lamp.
The paper wasn't just old printer paper. It had a faint, intricate watermark embedded in the fibers.
“It’s stationery,” I said, tracing the faint outline. “Look at the crest. A shield with two crossed keys.”
Lorenzo’s eyes widened. “The St. Jude Orphanage in Boston. My father donated heavily to them decades ago.”
“Arthur Bellamy didn’t just hide her,” I realized, a chill running down my spine. “He hid her in a place your family funded. A sick joke to keep her right under your noses.”
“She’d be twenty-six now,” Lorenzo said, his chest heaving. “If she grew up there… they might have records of where she went.”
“We go to Boston,” I said firmly.
Lorenzo looked at me. “No, Clara. You’ve been through enough tonight. You just found out who you are. Stay here with my mother.”
“I just found out I have family,” I corrected him, standing tall. “Aunt Evelyn is safe in the hospital with your best guards. Isabella is my cousin, too. I’m coming with you.”
Lorenzo stared at me for a long moment. He saw the same stubborn resilience that Evelyn possessed.
“Fine,” he said. “We leave in ten minutes.”
The private jet flight to Boston was a blur of anxious silence. Lorenzo sat rigidly in his leather seat, staring out the window into the pitch-black sky. I sat across from him, holding the heavy gold watch he had taken off earlier, tracing the glass face.
By dawn, our black SUV pulled up to the imposing iron gates of St. Jude’s Orphanage. It was a massive, gothic stone building that looked more like a fortress than a home for children.
Lorenzo didn’t bother ringing the bell. He pushed the heavy wooden doors open, stepping into a dusty, echoey foyer.
An elderly nun at the front desk gasped, standing up quickly. “Sir, visiting hours aren't until—”
“I need the records for a girl named Isabella, brought here twenty years ago,” Lorenzo demanded, placing a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills on the counter. “She would have a crescent moon birthmark on her shoulder.”
The nun looked at the money, then at Lorenzo’s terrifyingly determined face.
“I… I don't need your money, sir,” she stammered, pulling a massive ledger from beneath the desk. “I remember the girl you’re talking about. She didn't speak for the first three years she was here.”
Lorenzo’s breath caught. “Where is she?”
The nun flipped through the yellowed pages. “She aged out of the system eight years ago. But she didn't go far. She works at the public library three blocks from here.”
We didn't run. We flew.
The morning air was biting cold as we hurried down the cobblestone streets of Boston. My heart pounded against my ribs so hard it ached.
We reached the small, red-brick public library just as it opened.
Lorenzo pushed the glass door open.
The library was quiet, smelling of old paper and floor wax.
Behind the checkout counter stood a young woman. She was shelving books, her back to us. She had long, dark hair pulled into a messy bun.
Lorenzo stopped dead in his tracks.
The woman turned around to face us.
She had the exact same dark, expressive eyes as Evelyn Moretti.
Lorenzo took a step forward, his voice completely failing him.
The young woman looked at him, confused for a moment. Then, her eyes dropped to the heavy gold watch I was holding in my hand—the watch that had belonged to their father.
Her breath hitched.
She looked back up at Lorenzo.
“Enzo?” she whispered, her voice trembling.
May you like
Before Lorenzo could answer, the glass front doors of the library shattered inward, raining shards across the floor.
Three men in black ski masks stepped through the broken frame, raising suppressed automatic weapons directly at us.
