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Suddenly, she breaks out of my hold and jumps to her feet. She turns to face me, and her eyes flash with unreadable emotion. Her voice is loud in the room as the words rush out of her.
“He said my mother, Rina Carlotti, somehow survived the car bomb that supposedly killed her. He said my mother is still alive.”
I blink at her in shock, unable to formulate words.
She sucks in a breath and lets it out in a hiss before repeating the shocking allegation.
“Rio, I think mybirthmotheris still alive, and I think she’s the one behind all these attacks.”
29
“Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.”
Arthur Conan Doyle
Bianca
Rio’s headreels back as if I’ve slapped his cheek. Then the familiar mask drops over his features, and his expression turns inscrutable.
In the past, whenever I saw that expression, I assumed it’s because he’s cold. Emotionless. A monster.
But now I know better. A tiny tic beneath his left eye starts up, betraying him. He’s not emotionless. He’s fuming with rage, and terrified for our daughter, just as much as I am, only he’s trying to hide his reaction from me and everyone else.
“That’s impossible,” he says at last.
His tone is stiff, formal. Obviously, he doesn’t believe what I’ve said can be true.
I know how he feels. I can scarcely believe it either.
But the more I think about it, the more I feel like it fits. Penn wasn’t afraid for Emilia, and not because she was simply a coldhearted kidnapping bitch. She wasn’t afraid because she didn’t feel like she needed to be. She knew that whoever has our daughter doesn’t want to harm her.
And who else would have Emilia’s best interests at heart? Her grandmother.
“I know you don’t believe me, but—”
“There was DNA evidence at the scene, Bianca. DNA that matched both your mother and your father. Witnesses saw them both get into the vehicle, and afterwards, well, by all accounts, no one could survive a blast like that.”
I can’t stay still. I feel like ants are crawling all over my body. I need to do something. Move. Something. I begin to pace up and back in front of the fireplace, my toes curling into the plush rug as I move.
Suddenly, I stop and poke a finger his way. “And you’ve never faked a death before? Set up a scene to look like one thing when it really is another? Paid off witnesses? Rigged DNA evidence?”
“I…”
“Thought so.”
He can’t deny it. I see the truth in his eyes.
“It’s not impossible,” he says in a slow, considered tone. “But it really is improbable. Do you not think your mother would have reached out to you at some point in the past twenty-six years if she were alive?”
“Maybe she didn’t want to risk putting me in danger.”
“Well, she’s certainly doing the opposite now. If it really is her.”
I stop pacing and turn to look at the flames in the grate. He’s right. All her actionsareputting us in danger now. Me, Emilia, and Rio. Why would she do that?
And if she did want the Carlotti business back again, then why not simply come forward when word got out that Rio had found me and planned to marry me? For that matter, why not come forward all those years ago after my birth father died?
Part of me wants it to be true. Desperately. If sheisalive, then maybe one day I can meet her, and truly have a chance to understand who I am and what my heritage is. Emilia could have the chance to know and understandherheritage, too.
