CHAPTER 2 — THE WOMAN MY MOTHER REALLY WAS
CHAPTER 2 — THE WOMAN MY MOTHER REALLY WAS
For several seconds, I simply stared at him.
The rain continued to fall around us, drumming softly against the umbrella, soaking the fresh earth that covered my mother's grave.
My heart was still breaking over Marco.
But something inside Alessandro's voice demanded attention.
Not sympathy.
Not comfort.
Truth.
"I don't understand," I whispered.
"You will."
He offered his arm.
"The doctor your mother trusted is waiting. You have been under tremendous stress, and judging by those contractions, I refuse to explain thirty years of secrets while you stand in freezing rain."
"My baby..."
"Will be protected."
His certainty startled me.
No hesitation.
No false reassurance.
Simply certainty.
I looked once more at the mound of wet earth.
"Goodbye, Mama."
The words barely escaped before another cramp tightened across my stomach.
Alessandro immediately supported my elbow.
The limousine door opened before we reached it.
Not by a chauffeur.
By another man in an immaculate suit who greeted Alessandro with quiet respect.
"Everything is prepared."
Prepared?
For me?
How?
The warm leather interior smelled faintly of cedar and old books.
Nothing about it resembled the taxis or buses my mother and I had used our entire lives.
As the limousine pulled away from La Almudena Cemetery, I watched Marco's divorce papers lying in my lap.
The ink had begun to bleed from the rain.
Perhaps that was fitting.
So had my marriage.
Twenty minutes later we stopped—not at a hospital.
Not at a hotel.
But outside one of the largest private estates I had ever seen.
Tall iron gates opened automatically.
Beyond them stretched acres of ancient olive trees, fountains carved from white marble, gardens trimmed with impossible precision, and a mansion overlooking the hills outside Madrid.
My mouth fell open.
"There must be some mistake."
"There isn't."
The limousine rolled toward the entrance.
Servants were already waiting beneath the covered portico.
Not one.
Not two.
Nearly twenty.
Men and women dressed in dark uniforms stood silently in two perfect rows.
The instant Alessandro stepped out—
They bowed.
Not to him.
To me.
"Welcome home, Señora Elena."
I froze.
"No."
A middle-aged woman with silver hair approached carefully.
Tears filled her eyes before she even spoke.
"My little Elena..."
I instinctively stepped backward.
"I don't know you."
"I know."
Her voice trembled.
"You were only four years old the last time I held you."
My pulse quickened.
"My mother never brought me here."
"She couldn't."
The woman lowered her head.
"She promised your grandfather she would keep you hidden until the right day."
I looked toward Alessandro.
"What are they talking about?"
He nodded toward the mansion.
"Everything will be explained inside."
The entrance hall looked less like a house than a museum.
Crystal chandeliers.
Oil paintings.
Hand-carved staircases.
Portraits of men and women whose faces carried the same dark eyes I saw every morning in my mirror.
One portrait made me stop breathing.
It showed my mother.
Not wearing supermarket clothes.
Not carrying grocery bags.
She wore an ivory evening gown with diamonds around her neck.
Standing beside an older gentleman dressed in military uniform.
She couldn't have been older than twenty-five.
Beautiful.
Confident.
Powerful.
"My mother..."
I walked toward the painting.
"That's impossible."
"No," Alessandro answered quietly.
"That was Isabella Ricci."
I slowly turned.
"Ricci?"
"Your mother's maiden name."
"My surname has always been Martínez."
"Because she changed it."
"Why?"
His expression darkened.
"To disappear."
A doctor examined me immediately.
"The baby is healthy."
He smiled reassuringly.
"The contractions are caused by severe emotional stress, not labor."
Relief washed over me.
When he left, Alessandro placed a thick leather folder onto the library table.
"This belonged to your mother."
Inside were photographs.
Newspaper articles.
Business contracts.
Old passports.
Letters.
I recognized my mother's handwriting instantly.
But everything else belonged to a stranger.
Headlines read:
RICCI INTERNATIONAL EXPANDS INTO TWELVE COUNTRIES.
ISABELLA RICCI DECLINES PUBLIC ROLE AFTER FAMILY TRAGEDY.
THE HEIRESS WHO VANISHED.
I looked up slowly.
"My mother was..."
"The sole heir to one of Spain's oldest family investment groups."
I laughed.
Actually laughed.
Because it was absurd.
"My mother cleaned offices."
"No."
Alessandro corrected me gently.
"Your mother owned the company that owned the buildings she cleaned."
Silence.
The words refused to make sense.
"She... what?"
"She chose anonymity."
"Why would anyone do that?"
He opened another folder.
Inside lay photographs of burned vehicles.
Police reports.
Funeral notices.
Three death certificates.
"Because everyone who wanted the Ricci fortune believed the family had been destroyed."
My breathing slowed.
"My grandfather..."
"Was murdered."
"My grandmother?"
"Murdered."
"My uncles?"
"Both murdered."
Every word landed like a hammer.
Only my mother survived.
"She escaped because no one knew she had already given birth."
I felt cold.
"So..."
"They believed the Ricci bloodline ended."
Alessandro looked directly into my eyes.
"But your mother had you."
The library doors suddenly opened.
A young woman hurried inside.
"Sir."
She handed Alessandro a tablet.
His calm expression disappeared.
"What happened?"
She swallowed.
"We've confirmed it."
He looked toward me.
"I'm afraid your husband isn't wasting time."
"What do you mean?"
He turned the screen around.
My stomach dropped.
The headline had already spread across every major gossip website.
LOCAL BUSINESSMAN MARCO VEGA ANNOUNCES DIVORCE, INTRODUCES NEW PARTNER HOURS AFTER MOTHER-IN-LAW'S FUNERAL.
Below it—
A smiling photograph.
Marco.
His arm wrapped around Sofia.
Champagne glasses raised.
They were celebrating.
Celebrating.
Less than two hours after burying my mother.
My vision blurred.
"They're calling me emotionally unstable," I whispered.
Another article loaded.
PREGNANT WIFE ALLEGEDLY REFUSED TO SUPPORT HUSBAND'S CAREER.
Another.
SOURCES CLAIM MARCO VEGA ESCAPED YEARS OF FINANCIAL ABUSE.
"They're lying..."
"They paid for these stories."
Alessandro's jaw tightened.
"The campaign began yesterday."
Yesterday?
"So they planned all of this before my mother even died."
"I'm afraid so."
Tears burned my eyes.
Marco had not abandoned me impulsively.
He had scheduled my destruction.
Before I could answer, Alessandro's phone rang.
He listened without speaking.
Then he slowly smiled.
Not kindly.
Not warmly.
Coldly.
"The board has received confirmation."
"What board?"
"The Ricci International Board of Directors."
My head spun.
"They've activated your mother's final instructions."
"I don't understand."
He stood.
"You will."
He walked toward the enormous fireplace where a portrait of my mother overlooked the room.
"Your mother anticipated this exact day."
"How?"
"Because she knew Marco."
I stared.
"What?"
"She investigated him the moment you introduced him five years ago."
The room became perfectly silent.
"She knew?"
"Everything."
My chest tightened.
"Then why didn't she tell me?"
Alessandro's voice softened.
"Because you begged her not to interfere."
Memories flooded back.
Every argument.
Every warning.
Every uncomfortable question Mama had asked about Marco's finances.
His temper.
His ambition.
And every time...
I had defended him.
I had chosen him.
Over her.
Alessandro placed a sealed envelope in front of me.
Across the front, written in my mother's unmistakable handwriting, were six words.
For Elena—Only After My Burial.
My hands began to shake.
"What is it?"
"The beginning."
He paused.
"And the reason your ex-husband has less than forty-eight hours before he discovers he divorced the richest woman he has ever met."
With trembling fingers, I broke the seal.
The first page unfolded.
At the very top, in bold letters, were words that made the room spin.
To my daughter, Isabella Ricci's only heir...
And beneath those words...
A number.
€2,843,000,000.
May you like
The inheritance Marco had laughed at...
Was worth nearly three billion euros.
