Chapter 3 - The Maid With Two Birth Certificates
I met Vincent in a public restaurant.
My choice.
No Belladonna House.
No armed men visibly standing behind him.
He arrived alone.
Probably not truly alone.
But effort counted.
I placed both birth certificates between us.
“Explain your family.”
He gave tired laugh.
“How many hours do you have?”
“Start with Lucia.”
Vincent told me what Moretti family mythology said.
Sofia and Lucia were daughters of Giovanni Moretti, jeweler turned businessman turned organized-crime figure.
Sofia, Vincent's mother, was disciplined.
Lucia rebellious.
At nineteen Lucia fell in love with someone family disliked.
Then became pregnant.
Giovanni demanded name of father.
She refused.
One night Lucia disappeared.
Family narrative: ran away.
Six months later package arrived containing Sofia's star locket and a note:
Stop looking.
“Who sent it?”
“Unknown.”
“Did police investigate?”
Vincent almost smiled.
“My grandfather didn't involve police.”
Of course.
“He searched his way.”
Meaning men.
Money.
Threats.
Nothing.
Sofia never believed Lucia ran.
She searched privately for years.
Then stopped abruptly when Vincent was twelve.
“Why?”
“My father was killed.”
“How connected?”
“I don't know.”
Again.
Vincent's father, Marco Moretti, was shot outside restaurant.
Afterward Sofia focused on keeping Vincent alive.
Lucia became forbidden subject.
Sofia died four years ago from aneurysm.
“What were her last words?”
Vincent looked away.
I noticed.
“What?”
“She said a name.”
“Whose?”
“Rosalia.”
My throat closed.
“You never told me.”
“I didn't know what it meant.”
“Did you ask?”
“She was unconscious within seconds.”
His mother died saying my birth name.
I needed air.
Restaurant suddenly too warm.
I stood and walked outside.
Vincent followed but stayed several feet back.
Chicago? Story maybe New York; keep NYC. Cold Manhattan air.
“I don't want to be a Moretti.”
He said nothing.
“I have a name.”
“Yes.”
“I had a mother.”
“Yes.”
“Marianne was my mother.”
“Yes.”
Good.
No correction.
“DNA doesn't get to erase her.”
“No.”
I turned.
“Why are you being agreeable?”
“Because you're right.”
I hated that too.
Then I asked:
“Who was Lucia's baby's father?”
Vincent:
“I don't know.”
“What does DeMarco have to do with this?”
“We're finding out.”
“There is no we.”
He nodded.
“You're finding out.”
Better.
Maya subpoenaed archived adoption-law records through appropriate process. DeMarco attorneys resisted.
That made us more interested.
Meanwhile I searched Marianne's things.
After her death I'd stored boxes in self-storage in Queens.
Lena came.
We spent Saturday opening old tax returns, recipe cards, Christmas ornaments.
Then found a locked cash box.
Key taped beneath.
Inside:
$4,000.
My baby bracelet.
And letters.
Twenty-three letters from Sofia Moretti to Marianne Bennett.
My hands shook.
First dated two months after adoption.
**Dear Marianne,
Thank you for keeping her safe. I know what I am asking of you is impossible.**
I stopped.
Lena whispered:
“Oh my God.”
I continued.
Sofia knew exactly where I was.
She had arranged adoption.
Not DeMarco alone.
Letter two:
Anthony says papers are clean. No one can connect Rosalia to Lucia now.
Anthony DeMarco.
Why hide me?
Another:
If Giovanni learns Lucia left the evidence with child, he will search every home in New York.
Evidence?
With child?
Locket.
I grabbed necklace.
Still stuck.
Maya had said don't force until professionally examined.
Now I wanted hammer.
Lena stopped.
“Don't.”
I kept reading.
Sofia paid Marianne monthly for first two years through DeMarco trust.
Then Marianne refused further money.
Letter:
You said love cannot be payroll. I understand.
I cried.
That sounded like Marianne.
Then letters became less frequent.
Final, dated twelve years ago:
He found out Rosalia exists. I don't know how much he knows. Keep her away from Belladonna. Never let her attend a DeMarco event.
He.
Who?
Giovanni was dead by then.
Vincent's father dead.
Anthony DeMarco alive.
Could be someone else.
And Belladonna.
Vincent's estate.
Why specifically Belladonna House?
I called him.
“You need to see these.”
We met at Maya's office.
Vincent read silently.
When he reached Belladonna line, his face hardened.
“My mother inherited Belladonna from Giovanni.”
“Why keep me away?”
He thought.
“There’s something in house.”
“Or someone.”
Then Maya entered with news.
Anthony DeMarco was seventy-four and living in assisted-care residence after stroke.
But his law partner remained active.
Charles Vale.
Name appeared repeatedly in St. Agnes records.
He was also current general counsel for Vivian's New Horizons charity.
Maya had found complaints against charity.
Not criminal cases.
Sealed civil settlements.
Three women claimed New Horizons pressured them into surrendering babies to private adoptive families.
All complaints withdrawn after payments.
My stomach turned.
“Baby-selling?”
“Don't jump,” Maya said.
“Coercive adoption practices maybe. Illegal placement maybe. We need records.”
Vincent became very still.
“Vivian chairs it.”
“Yes.”
He looked ashamed.
“What did you know?”
“Nothing.”
“Were you funding it?”
“Yes.”
Of course.
His legitimate foundation donated millions.
I laughed bitterly.
“My family seems excellent at moving babies and money without asking women.”
He accepted blow.
That night, I finally had locket opened professionally by a jewelry conservator.
The back was not jammed by age.
It had been soldered shut.
Deliberately.
Inside were no photographs.
A tiny rolled strip of microfilm.
1990s.
Preserved inside wax.
Maya arranged specialist scan.
Three pages.
A list.
Names.
Dates.
Amounts.
Infant sex.
Adoptive family initials.
At top:
ST. AGNES PRIVATE PLACEMENTS — A.D. / C.V.
Anthony DeMarco.
Charles Vale.
And one handwritten note:
Lucia M. — witnessed.
My birth mother had discovered a secret adoption brokerage operating through St. Agnes.
Possibly trafficking vulnerable mothers' babies to wealthy families for money.
She had copied records.
Then became pregnant.
Sofia hid the evidence inside her own star locket and arranged my adoption under false surname.
Maybe Lucia had given evidence to sister.
Maybe they hid it with me because nobody searches infant necklace.
One entry stopped me.
Baby Girl #41 — $85,000 — V.D.
Date: twenty-nine years ago.
V.D.
Vivian DeMarco?
She was thirty-one.
Could Vivian herself have been one of those private placements?
That would mean Anthony DeMarco might not be her biological father.
And suddenly her terror at seeing my locket could mean something very different.
Maybe Vivian wasn't protecting father's crime.
May you like
Maybe she was protecting truth about herself.
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