Chapter 3 - THE EMPTY URN AND THE WARM BLANKET
The waiting room smelled of antiseptic and stale coffee. I sat in a plastic chair, staring at my hands, while Luca stood by the window, speaking rapidly in Italian on his phone.
My mind was a violent storm.
Daniel was bleeding on the cobblestones.
My grandfather's pawned watch.
A pink backpack.
St. Catherine's Hospital.
When our daughter, Lily, was born, she was premature. The doctors told us her lungs weren't developed. They whisked her away to the NICU. Three days later, a doctor I had never met walked into my room with a sorrowful expression and handed me a clipboard with a death certificate.
They told us we couldn't see the body. That the infection was too severe. We were grieving, young, and broke. We trusted them. We paid for a cheap cremation, and they handed us a small, sealed ceramic urn.
Luca hung up the phone and sat beside me. He didn't crowd me, but his presence was an anchor in the chaos.
“Daniel is out of surgery,” Luca said quietly.
I jerked my head up. “Is he—”
“He’s stable. They relieved the pressure on his brain. He’s in a medically induced coma to heal, but the surgeon expects a full recovery.”
A sob tore from my throat. I covered my face, the relief so absolute it physically hurt. Luca handed me a perfectly pressed handkerchief from his pocket.
“Thank you,” I cried, gripping the fabric.
“Save your tears, Rachel,” Luca said, his voice lowering to a dangerous rumble. “Because we are not done.”
He pulled a small leather notebook from his breast pocket.
“When I bought this hospital three years ago, I ordered a full audit of the facility’s finances. There was a discrepancy. A massive anonymous donation was made to the pediatric wing on the exact day you lost your daughter.”
“A donation?” I whispered.
“Two million dollars. Paid through a shell corporation.” Luca opened the notebook. “A corporation that I discovered tonight belongs to Vanessa’s father.”
The room spun. “Why would Vanessa’s family pay the hospital when my baby died?”
“Because,” Luca said, looking me dead in the eye, “Vanessa has a medical condition. She cannot carry children. It is a secret she has guarded fiercely because my family expects an heir.”
The air in my lungs vanished.
No. It couldn't be.
“Are you saying…” My voice was a broken whisper. “Are you saying they took her?”
“I am saying we need to look inside the urn you took home three years ago.”
Thirty minutes later, Marco drove us to my small apartment. The neighborhood was dark, the streetlights flickering. Luca stepped inside my modest living room, his expensive suit entirely out of place against the secondhand furniture.
I walked to the small shelf in the corner. Resting on a knitted doily was a small, white ceramic urn. I had dusted it every single morning for three years. I had kissed it before bed. I had wept over it until I had no tears left.
My hands shook violently as I picked it up.
“I can't open it,” I choked out. “If it's ashes… I can't disrespect her.”
Luca stepped behind me. “Allow me.”
I handed it to him. With strong, steady hands, Luca unsealed the top. He looked inside.
His expression didn't change, but a muscle feathered in his jaw.
He tipped the urn upside down over my kitchen table.
No ashes fell out.
Instead, a heavy, tightly rolled bundle of thick linen cloth dropped onto the table. Luca unrolled it. Hidden inside the cloth to give the urn weight were three small rocks.
There were no ashes. There never had been.
I screamed. It wasn't a cry; it was a primal, agonizing sound that ripped through my throat. I collapsed against the table, clutching the empty cloth to my chest.
She was alive. They took my baby.
Luca caught my shoulders, holding me firmly as my knees gave out.
“Listen to me,” he commanded, his voice slicing through my panic. “Rachel, look at me.”
I forced my eyes up to his.
“Vanessa has been hiding something at my summer estate in Lake Como,” Luca said grimly. “She claims it’s renovations. But Daniel delivers imported groceries there every Thursday.”
I gasped for air. “He saw her. Daniel saw my daughter.”
“He saw something that made him confront the woman at my gate tonight,” Luca confirmed. He pulled out his phone. “Marco. Warm up the jet.”
“Where are we going?” I asked, wiping my face, a sudden, fierce anger replacing the grief.
“We are going to tear my house apart until we find out who that woman was,” Luca said. “And then, we are going to get your daughter back.”
But as we walked out the door, my phone buzzed. It was an unknown number.
I answered it.
May you like
“If you want to see the little girl again, Rachel, you will get in a cab and come to the harbor alone. If you tell Luca, she goes into the water.”
The line went dead.
