“All right,” she finally muttered.
But it wasn’t all right. It wasn’t right at all. How could she turn her back on her own grandfather? How could she just wait for him to die, without getting to know him? Without loving him, and giving him the chance to love her—and Chloe?
The air in the darkened bedroom had grown decidedly chilly. She bit her lip. “But if I really am that baby…”
He folded his arms. “Sì?”
“Who saved me from that fire after the accident? Who took me to the United States?”
“No one knows,” he said coldly. “Connie Abbott was an American tourist staying at my aunt’s pensione when you disappeared. I heard her say she longed for a child. Perhaps she took you.”
She had the sudden feeling that he was keeping something from her. But before she could put her finger on the feeling, she realized what he’d said.
Her mother—a baby thief?
“No! My mother would never—”
She covered her mouth with her hands.
How many times had Connie woken her up in the middle of the night—switching schools, jobs and apartments from Evanston to Lincoln to Chicago? Her mother had been a family-practice doctor—Lucy had found the M.D. degree buried in her mother’s papers—but she’d insisted on taking low-paying, low-profile jobs. Almost as if she were trying to stay invisible. Almost as if for all those years, Connie had been looking over her shoulder, afraid someone would find them and take her child away—
“No.” Lucy took a deep breath. “You have no proof.”
“Not of how you ended up being raised as her daughter. But I do have proof of your identity.” Turning on a small light, he took some papers from his desk. He sat next to her on the bed, his hard thigh pressing against her leg.
She looked up at him, holding her breath.
His lips curved as if he knew the effect he had on her. He probably did. For a man like Maximo, making women ache with desire came naturally as breathing. He was a playboy, wasn’t he? He’d no doubt left a trail of broken hearts around the world, while he himself remained careless and free, always seeking his next pleasure.
She envied his cold heart.
“Here.” He handed her the paper
s. “The results of your DNA test. There can be no doubt. You are the long-lost daughter of Narsico and Graziella Ferrazzi.”
Her eyes flickered over the scientific jargon, but she couldn’t focus on the words. A teardrop plopped noisily onto the top page.
Her mother wasn’t her mother.
Her mother had stolen her away from her real family…
Memories of Connie’s hugs, her comfort after every scraped knee, her cookies after school, her homemade ornaments on the Christmas tree, her laughter and love, all pierced Lucy like a betrayal. When she’d lost her mother nine years ago, she’d thought it was the worst pain she would ever experience in her life.
She’d been wrong.
Her mother had known she was dying, but she’d still selfishly kept her secret to the grave. Rather than send Lucy back to Italy, to a grandfather who loved her, she’d left her daughter to languish for six years in foster care, neglected, ignored. Desperate for someone—anyone—to love her.
“She was never my mother,” she whispered. “All those years, she said she loved me and she…lied to me. She—”
Then she remembered the last night in the hospital before her mother had died. They’d watched a movie about Italy, and her mother had tried desperately to speak. She’d told Lucy to go to Italy. She’d told her to go.
But she’d died before she could explain why.
Lucy closed her eyes, remembering everything about the woman she’d loved more than life. “Mom,” she whispered.
Holding the damning DNA results against her chest, she leaned back on the bed, holding her knees tightly. She cried, only dimly aware of Maximo beside her on the bed, comforting her body with his own.
“Chloe!”