Chapter 3 - The Letters Under the Floor
Sebastian arrived at eleven.
He wore the charcoal suit he favored when delivering news he expected me to dislike.
For twenty years, he had been the family attorney.
My father trusted him.
My mother had relied on him.
When I inherited power before I had learned what to do with it, Sebastian explained the machinery and assured me that discretion was the same as protection.
He entered my study carrying a leather portfolio.
“Angelo said you needed me urgently.”
I sat behind my desk.
Claire had left an hour earlier.
She had agreed to speak with an independent attorney before discussing anything further.
She had not agreed to trust me.
I respected the distinction.
“Do you remember Claire Carter?”
Sebastian’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly.
“Of course.”
“Did she write to me?”
He paused.
“There may have been correspondence after the separation.”
“What correspondence?”
“Dante, we dealt with that years ago.”
“No,” I said. “Apparently you did.”
I placed the forged letter on the desk.
He looked at it.
Not surprise.
Calculation.
That was when something inside me became cold and clear.
“I would need to review the file.”
“You will preserve the file.”
His eyes lifted.
“Are you accusing me of something?”
“I’m asking a question.”
“And I’m advising caution.”
I almost laughed.
Caution had kept a child outside my life for five and a half years.
“Did Claire tell you she was pregnant?”
Sebastian rested one hand on the back of a chair.
“She made several claims.”
The room changed.
I could hear the clock near the window.
The fountain beyond the terrace.
My own breathing.
“You knew.”
“I knew there was an allegation.”
“Did you tell me?”
“She had already demonstrated an interest in financial compensation.”
I opened a drawer.
Inside was the agreement Sebastian had shown me six years earlier.
A signed settlement.
Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.
A promise from Claire to end all contact.
I had kept it like some men kept a bullet removed from their bodies.
Evidence that something had nearly killed them.
“Was this real?”
Sebastian said nothing.
I stood.
He straightened.
For years, men had mistaken my stillness for discipline.
Sometimes it was simply the moment before I did something unforgivable.
Then I remembered Sophie asking us to use inside voices.
I stepped away from the desk.
“Your access is suspended pending an independent review.”
“You can’t simply—”
“I can.”
“This family has obligations you don’t fully appreciate.”
“Then explain them to outside counsel.”
He looked at me for a long moment.
“You’re emotional.”
“Yes,” I said. “That does not make the documents authentic.”
Angelo escorted him out.
No threats.
No locked basement.
It took more effort than I wanted to admit.
That afternoon, I hired an attorney who had never worked for my family.
Her name was Leona Price.
Her first instruction was to stop treating my private office like an extension of my bloodstream.
Preserve records.
Restrict access properly.
Document decisions.
Tell the truth even when it embarrassed me.
Especially then.
Meanwhile, Teresa asked to speak with me.
She stood near the study door holding an old tin box.
“Your mother gave me this before she died.”
My mother had been gone four months.
Four months of silence at breakfast.
Four months of newspapers I pretended to read.
“What is it?”
“She said if a woman named Claire ever came back, I should give it to her.”
I stared at the box.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Teresa’s eyes filled.
“She asked me not to. I thought it was something private. Then this morning, I saw the little girl.”
I took the box.
My mother’s handwriting appeared on the lid.
For Claire. With apologies that should have been spoken.
Inside were two photographs.
A small hospital bracelet.
And a letter.
I read the first sentence standing.
By the third, I had to sit down.
Dante, I learned too late that the story you were told about Claire was false.
The letter trembled in my hands.
My mother had discovered irregularities while reviewing the family foundation’s records during her final illness.
She had asked Sebastian to locate Claire.
He had told her Claire was living abroad and refused contact.
Then my mother found a returned envelope hidden among files from six years earlier.
Inside was a photograph of a newborn.
Sophie.
On the back, Claire had written:
Her name is Sophie. She has your eyes. I won’t ask for anything else. I only thought you should know.
My mother had tried to correct it.
According to her letter, she confronted Sebastian.
He promised to arrange a meeting.
Then her health collapsed.
At the bottom of the page, she had written one last line.
If I am wrong about anything, investigate it. If I am right, do not let grief make you cruel to the people who were already hurt.
I sat alone until the light changed.
Then I called Claire.
“There’s something you need to see.”
Her voice was cautious.
“What?”
May you like
I looked at the newborn photograph.
“The first picture of my daughter.”
