Chapter 3 - The Ghost of ZurichThe room seemed to tilt on its axis. My hands tightened around Leah, my mind spinning into a dark, chaotic vortex.
“A death certificate?” I echoed, the words tasting like poison. “No. I didn't die. I was sick... I was in a coma for three days after the delivery because of the blood loss. When I woke up, they told me she was gone. They wouldn't even let me see her body. They said... they said it was better for my mental health to just move on.”
Ricardo’s jaw clenched so hard the muscles in his cheek twitched violently. He stood up, turning his back to me as he paced the length of the empty restaurant. His boots made heavy, deliberate sounds against the marble.
“Julian,” Ricardo growled, addressing a younger man standing near the bar. Julian was sharp-featured, wearing a pair of wire-rimmed glasses and holding a secure laptop. He was the Moretti family’s primary information broker—the man who traced bloodlines and bank accounts. “Get Reinhardt on the line. Now.”
“Sir,” Julian said, his fingers already flying across the keyboard. “Dr. Reinhardt retired from the Zurich clinic eighteen months ago. Our last intel placed him in a private villa in Monaco. I’m bypassing his security protocols now.”
I slowly pulled myself up from the floor, lifting Leah into my arms. She was heavier than I expected, her small body solid and real, a living, breathing miracle against my chest. Her thumb was wedged tightly in her mouth, her green eyes locked onto mine with a fierce, possessive intensity. She was terrified that if she closed her eyes, I would vanish back into the shadows of her dreams.
“Mr. Moretti,” I said, my voice shaking as I walked toward him, balancing Leah on my hip. “Please. Tell me the truth. How did you get my daughter? Who gave her to you?”
Ricardo stopped pacing. He turned to look at me, his eyes softening just a fraction as he saw how natural Leah looked in my arms.
“Two years ago, my brother, Santino, was running our European operations out of Geneva,” Ricardo began, his voice low and tight. “He called me on an encrypted line. He told me that a private clinic in Zurich was quietly handling high-end adoptions for wealthy clients who wanted... undocumented children. Children with no paper trails.”
A cold sweat broke out across my upper lip. Undocumented children. My baby hadn't died; she had been harvested by a human trafficking ring operating out of a legitimate medical facility.
“Santino knew I had been trying to have a child for years,” Ricardo continued, his expression darkening. “My late wife passed away from leukemia five years ago. I wanted a family. I wanted an heir. Santino told me there was a child—a little girl whose mother had passed away during a difficult delivery. The father was unknown, and the extended family had abandoned her. He said the clinic needed a massive 'donation' to clear the legal hurdles.”
“A donation,” I spat, the word dripping with disgust. “You bought my daughter.”
Ricardo didn't flinch at the accusation. He stepped closer, his shadow falling completely over me. “I paid three million dollars to ensure she was given the best life possible. I didn't know she had been stolen from a living mother, Clara. If I had known... if the Moretti family had even a suspicion that a child was being ripped from her mother’s arms, we would have burned that clinic to the ground. We have rules. We do not traffic in stolen children.”
“But you kept her,” I challenged, tears threatening to spill again. “You took her anyway.”
“I took a child I believed was an orphan,” he corrected sharply. “And from the moment she arrived in New York, I have spent every waking hour trying to make her happy. But she was empty. She looked at me like I was her jailer, not her father. Now I see why.” He looked at Leah, whose eyes were fluttering shut, exhausted by the emotional outburst. “She knew. Even at a few weeks old, she knew the scent of her real mother. She knew who she belonged to.”
“Sir,” Julian’s voice broke the tension. He turned the laptop screen toward Ricardo. “I have Reinhardt. He’s on a secure satellite feed. But... there’s a complication.”
Ricardo walked over to the bar, and I followed him, refusing to let Leah out of my sight.
On the screen was an elderly man with thin white hair and pale, aristocratic features. He looked disheveled, sitting in a dimly lit room, his eyes wide with terror as he looked into the camera.
“Moretti,” Reinhardt gasped, his voice cracking through the speakers. “I told your brother everything two years ago! I have nothing left to say! Why are your men outside my villa?”
Ricardo leaned over the laptop, his face inches from the camera lens. “Reinhardt. Look closely at the screen.” He gestured for me to step into the frame.
I moved forward, holding Leah tightly. The moment the old doctor saw my face, the breath left his lungs in a sharp, rattling gasp. He pressed himself back against his leather chair as if he had just seen a phantom.
“Clara... Miss Vance,” Reinhardt whispered, his hands trembling so hard he dropped the pen he was holding. “No... this is impossible. You were supposed to be in South America. They told me you were taken care of.”
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“Who told you?” Ricardo roared, his voice finally exploding through the restaurant, causing the crystal chandeliers to vibrate. “Who paid you to steal Clara Vance’s baby and forge her death certificate, Reinhardt? Give me a name, or my men in Monaco will make sure your death is slow enough to last a week.”
Reinhardt swallowed hard, his eyes darting frantically off-screen. “It wasn't a standard adoption, Moretti! We were ordered to do it! The order came from New York! It was... it was her uncle! Arthur Vance!”
