Chapter 2 - The Mansion of Echoes
The ride to the Marchetti estate was silent, but the air inside the Maybach was thick with tension. Noelle sat in the back seat, flanked by the triple stroller.
The moment she had climbed into the vehicle, the crying had stopped. The three babies had stared at her with wide, wet eyes. The little girl, whom Damian called Isabella, had immediately reached out her chubby hands. Noelle hadn't been able to resist. She had taken the tiny hand, her thumb rubbing over the baby's soft knuckles. Isabella had let out a soft sigh, closed her eyes, and drifted off to sleep. The two boys, Leo and Matteo, followed shortly after, comforted simply by her presence.
Now, Noelle sat in the lavishly decorated nursery of the Marchetti mansion. The estate was nestled behind high stone walls and iron gates, a fortress of cold marble and dark wood. But the nursery was warm, filled with plush toys, hand-carved cribs, and a massive window overlooking the rain-slicked gardens.
Noelle gently laid Matteo into his crib, pulling a soft blue blanket over his shoulders. She stood over him, her heart heavy.
"You do that like you’ve done it a thousand times," a voice quiet as a shadow spoke from the doorway.
Damian was leaning against the doorframe, his sleeves rolled up, revealing thick, scarred forearms. He looked exhausted, the sharp edges of his dangerous persona slightly softened by the dim nightlight of the nursery.
"I used to practice," Noelle whispered, not looking away from the sleeping baby. "Before. I bought three of everything. I had three cribs set up in my tiny apartment. I used to practice tucking them in, singing to them."
"What did you sing to them?" Damian asked, taking a slow step into the room.
Noelle felt a tear slip down her cheek. "A silly song my mother sang to me. About a little star that got lost in the clouds, but always found its way home."
Damian stopped dead in his tracks. His face went entirely pale.
"What?" Noelle asked, turning to look at him, suddenly frightened by his expression.
"Isabella," Damian whispered, his voice cracking. "Sometimes, when she is having a nightmare, she hums a melody. I’ve never heard it before. My late wife, Camilla, never sang to them. She... she didn't care for the nursery. But Isabella hums a tune. It matches the rhythm of what you just described."
Before Noelle could process the weight of his words, the heavy oak doors of the hallway opened, and Reyes, Damian’s trusted right-hand man, stepped in. His face was grim, holding a thick manila folder.
"Boss," Reyes said, his eyes darting to Noelle with deep sympathy and shock. "We need to talk. Now."
Damian nodded. He looked at Noelle. "Stay here. Please. Watch over them."
Noelle nodded, her hands trembling. She sat in the rocking chair between the cribs, her mind spinning.
In the hallway just outside the nursery, Damian snatched the folder from Reyes's hands. "Tell me."
"It’s worse than we thought, Boss," Reyes said, his voice lowered to a harsh whisper. "Noelle Bishop’s medical records from St. Jude’s Memorial are a mess. They claim she suffered a placental abruption, and all three infants were stillborn. But there are no death certificates signed by the attending coroner. Only by Dr. Joseph Vance—the same doctor who delivered the triplets to your late wife, Camilla, at a private clinic on the exact same night."
Damian’s eyes darkened, a terrifying, murderous rage building behind them. "Vance was Camilla’s personal physician. She claimed she went into labor early while I was in Sicily dealing with the cartel."
"Boss, Camilla was never pregnant," Reyes delivered the final, devastating blow. "We pulled her private medical files from Switzerland. She had a hysterectomy five years ago. She faked the entire pregnancy with prosthetic bellies and forged documents to secure her position as your wife, knowing you needed heirs to satisfy the Commission. She bought those babies, Damian. She bought Noelle Bishop’s triplets."
Damian felt the world tilt on its axis.
He had married Camilla for political alliance, but he had loved the children from the moment he laid eyes on them. He had buried Camilla six months ago when her car went off a cliff, believing she was the mother of his children.
But she wasn't.
The woman sitting in his nursery, the woman his manager had called "unstable" and "fat" with grief, was the true mother of his children. She had been living in a cockroach-infested apartment, working doubles for pennies, mourning the babies that had been stolen from her womb.
Damian pushed open the nursery door.
Noelle looked up from the rocking chair. She saw the raw fury and devastation in his eyes, and she stood up, her heart hammering. "Mr. Marchetti? What is it? What did the records say?"
Damian walked over to her. He didn't stop until he was inches away. The ruthless mafia boss, feared by the entire city, looked down at her, his hands trembling.
"They didn't die, Noelle," he whispered.
"What?" Noelle’s breath hitched.
"Your babies," Damian said, a single tear escaping his dark eyes, breaking his legendary composure. "They didn't die. They are sleeping in those cribs right now."
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Noelle let out a sound—a broken, strangled cry that was half-sob, half-scream. She clutched her chest, her knees giving out.
Damian caught her before she hit the floor, pulling her small, shaking body against his chest. And for the first time in fourteen months, Noelle didn't feel empty.
