Chapter 4

Alessia

Four Years Later

The electric bell rang inside the school building just as I parked the car in the school driveway.

Finishing the last of my iced Americano, I pushed the door open and stepped out. Other parents were getting out of their cars as well—some housekeepers, some nannies, some chauffeurs, assistants. It was a large variety of people, and that was normal. After all, this was an excellent kindergarten where many parents with corporate jobs were too busy to come pick up their children themselves.

I counted myself lucky that I could give my kids all the time and attention they needed while still paying our bills—all thanks to working from home.

Across the driveway, children were already pouring out through the doors, noisy and excited to be done with the day’s activities.

My job as a weather content creator and article writer had taken off so suddenly—and so well—that my bank account had overflowed in no time. I had been heavily pregnant when the first thousand dollars came in, after my babies were confirmed to be quadruplets.

It was a relief, because even the large sum of money gifted to me years ago by my anonymous helper would not have been enough to raise three sons and one daughter for four years. But it had been a good start, until my income became steady.

“Mommy!” a tiny, shrill voice exclaimed.

A smile broke across my face as I spotted my baby girl, Tiziana, in the crowd, running toward me with her ponytail flying behind her. Close behind were her brothers, hurrying after her with big grins on their faces.

My heart filled with warmth as I crouched down with my arms open.

“My babies! How are you?!” I laughed as they all crashed into me.

I peppered kisses over their heads as they chattered excitedly about random things their classmates had done—except Renzo, my firstborn, who was busy collecting all their lunchboxes. Ruggero, my sweet third child, was trying to help him.

I led them to the car and strapped them in, while Tiziana and Tino, my second and youngest, kept chatting nonstop.

I got into the driver’s seat and eased the car out of the driveway. “So, what else happened at school today? What did you learn?”

“Oh! I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you!” Tiziana bounced in her seat. “Mom! Our teacher taught us about the family tree today! All our friends have two parents, but we only have one!”

She pouted, and as I glanced at her through the rearview mirror, I realized how much more she looked like my grandmother as she grew older.

I had been adopted into the Conti family, so it was impossible for my child to have inherited their genes. And yet, the resemblance was there—so uncanny that at first I thought it was just grief playing tricks on me. But now, years later, I still saw Monica Conti in her.

“Has our dad forgotten about us?” Ruggero’s timid voice came from the window seat. “Doesn’t he love us? Is that why he’s not here?”

The sadness in his question squeezed my heart so tightly I could barely blink back the tears.

I glanced at him gently. “Your father loves you all very much, and he will never forget you. You’re angels—beautiful angels, don’t you know?”

“So when are we going to see him, Mom?” Tino asked in his usual assertive tone. “You said he went somewhere very, very far, and that he’ll come back soon, right?”

“Yes, honey. You’ll meet him soon.” My voice faded into a whisper, paired with a forced smile. “Don’t worry, my babies. Everything will be okay.”

Renzo had been watching me quietly. He suddenly straightened and shot his siblings a firm look. “That’s enough now. Let Mom focus—she’s driving.”

“It’s okay, Renzo,” I smiled at him. “Mama’s a great driver.”

He was a splitting image of his father, and sometimes, if I looked too closely, I could feel my heart start to crack from all the painful memories. That was unfair to my boys, because looking like their father did not mean they had to be tainted by his actions.

Especially my little Renzo. At such a young age, he was already so stoic, melancholic, and adamant about being responsible for everyone else—including me. I always reminded him that he was just a kid and should spend his time relaxing and doing kid things.

But he was stubborn about burdening himself with adult concerns. It made me worried, scared to watch such a tiny boy become parentified. I would do anything to prevent that.

We got home, and the kids immediately ran out of the car and into the elevator leading up to our apartment.

“Wait! You can’t use the elevator alone, I’ve told you so many times, Tino!” I exclaimed, catching up to them and grabbing their hands.

“Sorry, Mommy.”

Once we got to our floor, I let the kids punch in the code and run into our apartment. I strolled in behind them, pulling my phone from my jeans pocket to check how my forecasts were performing for the day.

But what greeted my eyes were headlines—one after another—about the Conti Group.

I froze mid-step, slowly reading the words.

THE CONTI GROUP SUED FOR FRAUDULENT TAX EVASION!

Raimondo Conti, CEO of the Conti Group, EXPOSED by designated auditor for embezzlement

Following the skirmishes within the multimillion-dollar company, Conti shares have plummeted by 42%…

“This can’t be true,” I gasped, lowering my phone in horror.

This was a company Grandma had poured her soul into—built with care, grown with wisdom, protected until her final breath. And this was what it had become. A mockery of the empire it once was.

It was devastating.

I took a few steps forward, shaking my head sadly. I had always known they would run it into the ground. I was the only one who shared Grandma’s vision, and they had been more than willing to announce me dead just to erase me forever.

“Mommy!” Tiziana shrieked from one of the bedrooms, snapping me out of my thoughts.

I sucked in a deep breath and tossed my phone aside. “Yes, baby, I’m coming.”

Later that night, after reading my children their bedtime stories and finally putting their overactive little selves to sleep, I tied my soft cotton robe around my waist and stepped out of the apartment to check the mail.

There were a few envelopes waiting. I settled into the living room, flipping through them while the TV murmured quietly in the background.

Some were promotional letters from stores I frequented. A few were work-related. But one envelope sat ominously among them—plain, unmarked, with no return address.

Furrowing my brows, I pulled out the folded paper inside.

The moment I unfolded it, it slipped from my fingers.

Oh God.

No—this couldn’t be real.

It was Grandma’s handwriting.

I clutched my chest as my breathing turned erratic, my heart pounding so hard I feared it would give out. I hadn’t seen that handwriting in years, but it was carved into my most precious memories.

Grandma had always written her important letters by hand. People teased her for being old-fashioned, but she wore it proudly.

And now, lying in my lap, was a letter—written by her.

Gathering my strength, I picked it up with trembling fingers and smoothed it out. The elegant curves of her cursive blurred my vision with tears, but I forced myself to read the bold words written at the top.

OFFICIAL WILL OF GRETA CONTI

My lips trembled as tears streamed down my face. Still, I wasn’t prepared for what I saw next.

My name.

Written first.

Bold. Complete. And filled with love.

I broke down in sobs of realization.