Chapter 2 - The Ghost of Valentina
The private study smelled of old leather, expensive tobacco, and rain.
Isabella refused to sit in the plush armchair Adrian indicated. She stood in the center of the Persian rug, swaying gently to keep Sophia calm. The baby had finally stopped crying, resting her head against Isabella’s shoulder, her eyes heavy with exhaustion.
Adrian stood behind his massive oak desk. He poured two fingers of amber liquid into a crystal glass, but didn't drink it.
“Start from the beginning,” he commanded.
“Valentina hired me seven months ago in Boston,” Isabella said, her voice echoing softly in the quiet room. “I didn't know who she was. She used the name Clara Vance. She said she was a widow running a small accounting firm. She was seven months pregnant.”
“She was hiding,” Adrian corrected flatly.
“She was terrified,” Isabella countered. “She rented a third-floor apartment in South Boston. She rarely went out. Two weeks after Sophia was born, Valentina started leaving envelopes of cash in my bag. She told me if she ever disappeared, I was to take Sophia, rent a car, and drive straight to this address in Chicago.”
“And you didn't question her?”
“I questioned her every day,” Isabella said, meeting his piercing silver gaze. “I am a professional nanny, Mr. Costa. I have a degree in early childhood development from Boston College. I took care of children for wealthy families who had drama, but this wasn't drama. This was survival. I stayed because that baby needed someone who actually saw her as a person.”
“Not a bargaining chip,” Adrian repeated the line from the letter.
“Exactly.”
Adrian rounded the desk, stopping two feet away. He was imposing, built with broad shoulders and the disciplined stance of someone who took what he wanted from the world.
“Where is Valentina now?” he asked softly.
Isabella swallowed hard. “Three days ago, she didn't come home from her office. I found her apartment ransacked. The only thing left untouched was the hidden compartment in the crib where she left this letter, five thousand dollars in cash, and Sophia’s birth certificate.”
She pulled an official document from her inner pocket and handed it to him.
Adrian looked down at the paper.
Child Name: Sophia Valentina Moretti-Costa.
Mother: Valentina Moretti.
Father: Adrian Costa.
Seeing his name typed in black ink beside Valentina’s caused a dark knot to tighten in his chest. Eleven months ago, he had believed Valentina loved him. He had brought her into his home, shared his plans, and considered a future beyond the bloodshed of his family’s feud with the Moretti syndicate.
Then he found her searching his private safe.
She had fled before he could demand answers, leaving him with an empty safe, a compromised supply line, and a bitterness that had consumed his every waking hour since.
And now, this woman—this nanny with soft curves, defiance in her eyes, and mud on her boots—had dropped a piece of Valentina’s legacy directly into his lap.
“My uncle is right,” Adrian said quietly, staring at the document. “Dominic Moretti wants control of the shipping ports on the East Coast. He knows I hold fifty-one percent of the harbor rights. A legitimate child—a granddaughter—gives him leverage to contest my family’s estate if I were to die.”
Isabella stepped forward, her eyes flashing with anger. “Is that all she is to you? Leverage? A legal threat?”
“In my world, Miss Grant, everything is a threat until proven otherwise.”
“She is a six-month-old baby!” Isabella’s voice rose, vibrating with genuine outrage. “She has a double ear infection, she hasn't had her nap, and she is terrified! I don't give a damn about your shipping ports or your family feud. Her mother is missing, and these people are trying to kill her!”
Adrian stared at her. Few people dared to raise their voice at him, let alone yell at him in his own study about ear infections.
He looked down at Sophia. The little girl gave a small, sleepy snort, burying her nose into the crook of Isabella’s neck.
“Does she have a fever?” Adrian asked, his tone shifting imperceptibly.
“It broke two hours ago, but she needs antibiotics,” Isabella said, her shoulders dropping slightly as the adrenaline began to fade, leaving her visibly exhausted. “I have her diaper bag in the hall. It has her medicine.”
Adrian walked over to the door, opened it, and motioned to a guard standing outside.
“Bring her bag,” Adrian ordered. “And call Dr. Mercer. Tell him to come to the house immediately.”
“Sir?” the guard hesitated. “Dr. Mercer is in Evanston—”
“Then tell him to drive fast,” Adrian said coldly.
He closed the door and turned back to Isabella.
“You will stay in the nursery on the third floor,” Adrian told her. “My guards will secure the perimeter. Nobody enters or leaves this estate without my explicit permission.”
“Including me?” Isabella asked sharply.
May you like
Adrian walked back to his desk, his expression hardening into stone once more.
“Especially you, Miss Grant. Until I confirm whether you are a protector... or the bait in Dominic Moretti’s trap.”
