Chapter 9 - The Confession
“Why do you ask?” Roman repeated, his brow furrowing.
My hand trembled in my pocket. I couldn’t tell him. Not right now, with his mother in an ambulance and his family in pieces.
“I saw an old payroll record,” I lied smoothly. “Just curious. Go to your mother, Mr. Bellini. Mia will be safe with me.”
He searched my eyes for a moment before nodding and hurrying out the door.
The mansion fell into an eerie silence. The guests were gone. The police were gone. It was just me, the ruined engagement dinner, and a ten-year-old girl sitting on a velvet sofa.
I walked over to Mia. She looked up at me, her large brown eyes cautious.
“Are you hungry?” I asked gently.
She shook her head. She held up the piece of torn linen. “Is my grandma going to die?”
My heart broke. I sat down next to her. “No, sweetheart. She’s strong. She just needs some rest.”
I spent the next two hours cleaning up the dining room while Mia sat at the kitchen island, drawing in her sketchbook. I carefully folded the massive, hand-embroidered tablecloth, making sure the names—especially the new ones—were protected.
At 2:00 AM, the heavy front door opened.
Roman walked in. He had taken off his tie, and his suit jacket was draped over his arm.
“How is she?” I asked, standing up from the kitchen table.
“Stable,” Roman breathed, leaning against the counter. “It was a severe panic attack, not a heart attack. Gabriel is staying with her overnight.”
He looked over at Mia, who had fallen asleep with her head resting on her arms, her crayons scattered around her.
Roman’s expression softened. He walked over, gently scooped the little girl into his arms, and carried her to one of the guest suites.
When he came back down, I was pouring him a glass of whiskey.
He took it gratefully, taking a slow sip.
“Thank you, Nora,” he said.
I nodded. I knew I couldn’t wait any longer. The secret in my pocket was suffocating me.
“Mr. Bellini,” I started, my voice tight. “You said Thomas went to prison thirty years ago.”
Roman paused, lowering his glass. “Yes. For vehicular manslaughter. He was driving one of the company trucks and hit a pedestrian. It was a huge scandal. Why are you bringing this up tonight?”
I pulled the photograph out of my pocket and set it on the marble counter between us.
Roman looked at it. “That’s Thomas. And my parents.”
“Turn it over,” I said.
He flipped the photo. He read the words: Thomas Walsh. Our savior.
“Walsh,” Roman whispered, his eyes widening. He looked up at me.
“Thomas Walsh is my father,” I said, my voice shaking. “He raised me alone. He never went to prison. He told me he was a mechanic in a logging town his whole life.”
Roman stared at me, the pieces clicking together in his sharp mind.
“If he didn’t go to prison…” Roman muttered, turning the photo over again. “Then who did?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “But your mother called him a savior.”
Roman set his glass down hard. He pulled out his phone and dialed a number.
“Who are you calling?” I asked.
“The precinct,” Roman said. “I have a contact in the records department. If a man went to prison under the name Thomas Walsh thirty years ago, there will be a mugshot.”
We waited in tense silence for ten minutes. Finally, Roman’s phone chimed with a text message.
He opened the image file.
He stared at the screen for a long time.
“Roman?” I asked, stepping closer.
He slowly turned the phone around so I could see the screen.
It was a mugshot from 1996. The man in the photo was young, maybe twenty-two, with a bruised lip and terrified eyes. The name plate under his chin read: THOMAS WALSH.
But it wasn’t my father.
It was Carlo Bellini.
“Carlo,” Roman whispered, pure horror washing over his face. “Carlo hit that pedestrian.”
I covered my mouth. “Your father bought my dad’s name.”
“To keep Carlo out of prison and protect the family’s public image,” Roman realized, his voice sickened. “Your father took the payoff. He gave Carlo his identity for the conviction, moved away, and lived a quiet life.”
Suddenly, the kitchen phone on the wall rang.
It was a jarring, shrill sound.
Roman answered it on speaker.
“Roman,” Gabriel’s voice crackled through the line. He sounded panicked.
“Gabriel, what is it? Is Mom okay?”
“Mom’s fine,” Gabriel said. “It’s Carlo. The police just called me. They were transporting him to the precinct for the fraud charges.”
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“And?” Roman demanded.
“He broke out of the cruiser at a stoplight,” Gabriel said. “He’s on the run, Roman. And they think he’s heading back to the mansion.”
