Stolen

by Tess Stimson

  ‘You staged your own funeral,’ I say, incredulously.

  ‘Actually, my mother did that,’ Luca says.

  I glance at Elena, sitting silent and slack-jawed on the stone bench, gazing blankly into the distance. She was very careful no one got too near his coffin, I remember suddenly. Flowers were heaped all around the catafalque, making it hard to get near: I was at least six feet away from Luca, perhaps more. And the only people at the funeral were Luca’s Sicilian family, who’d have closed ranks around Elena. But she still must have had nerves of steel to pull this off.

  Looking at her now, it’s hard to imagine her capable of it. But dementia isn’t linear, of course. Elena had just been diagnosed with the disease when Luca went to visit her nearly three-and-a-half years ago, but he said she was still fully coherent and functional: unless you spent time with her at close quarters, you’d never have guessed she was beginning to lose her mind. Her behaviour at the funeral seemed perfectly rational to me, especially in the context of a mother’s grief. There was no sign of the moonstruck, senile old woman she is now.

  Luca’s father must have been part of the lie too, I realise. Elena couldn’t have managed deceit on this scale without his cooperation. She was always the dominant one in their relationship: he’d have done whatever she asked.

  Luca frowns. ‘I still get headaches. It’s hard, sometimes, to concentrate.’

  There’s a shadow in his eyes, a darkness, a confusion, as if he himself can’t quite remember how he got here any more. ‘Mamma thought she was doing it for the best,’ he says. ‘A gift from God, she called it. Un dono di Dio.’

  ‘Luca, you’re not making any sense.’

  He rubs his hand over his face. He’s lost weight, I realise, more than is healthy; beneath the tan, his beautiful face is drawn. You could cut diamonds on his cheekbones.

  ‘I was in trouble, Alex, after we divorced. There was a woman.’ He sighs. ‘I know. Always a woman, right? She was Genovese; I met her when I was visiting my parents. It turns out she was married.’

  His eyes dart nervously around the courtyard.

  ‘Her husband’s a bad guy, Alex,’ he says. ‘I got in over my head. Way over my head. He’s got connections everywhere. I couldn’t go to the police, because half of them were working for him. I didn’t know what to do. I was scared to come home, to London, in case I led him to you and Lottie, scared to go back to my parents. And then the bridge in Genoa collapsed and, the next day, they found my car, crushed to nothing. Everyone thought I was dead.’

  I have no idea how much of this is true and how much just paranoia. But Luca evidently believes it.

  ‘I didn’t have any ID on me and I was admitted to hospital as a Mario Rossi – what would you say? John Doe? Or is that just in America?’ He shrugs. ‘When my father finally found me, after three days, he had me transferred to a hospital here, in Sicily, using my mother’s name. Luca Bonfiglio.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ I say. ‘How could you let us think you were dead?’

  ‘It wasn’t my choice,’ Luca says. ‘I swear to you, Alex. I was in a coma for weeks and afterwards I had to learn how to do everything again. How to walk, how to eat. It was months before I learned what my parents had—’

  ‘But it was your choice to keep the charade going!’

  His expression darkens. He is Luca, but not Luca, I realise suddenly. He’s changed. The accident has left invisible scars deeper than the one above his eye. He seems brittle, volatile, as if he doesn’t know himself which way he’s going to break.

  ‘We were divorced, Alex,’ he says, coolly. ‘Why should you care if I’m alive or dead?’

  ‘Of course I care! And what about Lottie?’

  ‘I came back for her,’ Luca says.

  ‘You stole her! You didn’t even let me know she was alive!’

  ‘You didn’t want her. I was the one who looked after her. It’s better she’s with me. I’m not the only one who thinks so.’

  There’s something in his smile that gives me pause. A spite I’ve never seen before.

  ‘What does that mean?’ I say.

  ‘How d’you think my mother knew to be on the beach at that time, on that day?’ he says. ‘Work it out, Alex.’

  Someone told him about the wedding.

  Someone close to me, someone I trusted.

  ‘Who?’ I say.

  He laughs. ‘Ask your boyfriend,’ he says.

  chapter 79

  alex

  It feels as if I’ve been punched in the throat. Suddenly it’s hard to breathe.

  Marc set me up.

  He’s the reason Elena Martini was on the beach that day.

  He’s known where Lottie was all along.

  Marc was never my boyfriend, of course, but that’s what Luca always called him: Your boyfriend’s on the phone. Off to have dinner with your boyfriend?

  ‘Marc knows you are alive?’

  ‘No, he doesn’t know. It was a lucky coincidence. I’d resigned myself to never seeing Lottie again, but then he contacted my mother a few months after I “died” and they arranged it between them. He thought he was sending Lottie to her grandmother.’

  Somehow Marc’s treachery is the worst of all. Luca is Lottie’s father; however deluded he is, he does at least have some claim to her. He didn’t play the role of devoted friend, campaigning and fundraising to find a child whose whereabouts he already knew. He didn’t hold my hand and comfort me as I sobbed my heartbreak to him, knowing he could alleviate my grief and misery in a moment.

  ‘Why?’ I say.

  ‘Why d’you think?’

  I suddenly remember the last time I saw Marc: After all I’ve done for you.

  He didn’t mean what he’d done to help me.

  He meant what he’d done to win me.

  I want to vomit. Did he think with Lottie out of the way I’d have time for him? Or perhaps it’s even darker: he wanted me to suffer, believing, in extremis, I’d turn to him.

  And for a while, at least, he was right.

  Marc’s the one who broke into my house, I realise. He wanted to see how close we were getting. How near to the truth.

  He must’ve stolen that photo of my sister and me eating ice-creams on the lawn at South Weald House to distract me – unless there’s a more sinister reason he wanted a picture of me as a child. My stomach curdles when I think that I let him tuck Lottie into bed.

  ‘I’m tired. I need to sit down,’ Luca says, abruptly.

  He crosses the courtyard towards the shade of the loggia, his movements those of a much older man. His left foot drags slightly and, when he sits down, he does so carefully, positioning a cushion in the small of his back.

  I feel an unexpected pang of loss. Luca might not have died three years ago in Genoa, but the young, handsome, vibrant man I knew did vanish that day. I don’t recognise the thin, haunted stranger who’s taken his place.

  ‘Where is she?’ I demand. ‘Is she here?’

  ‘She’s with her family.’

  ‘I’m her mother!’

  His beautiful eyes suddenly blaze with anger. ‘You have no right to call yourself that! You were fucking a stranger when you should’ve been looking after her! If my mother hadn’t rescued her, who knows what could have happened!’

  I want to slam his head against the stone wall behind him. For two years, I’ve been tormented by visions of what could have happened: my daughter chained in a cellar, passed around among depraved men, rotting in a makeshift grave.

  Luca could have spared me that agony with a single text.

  It takes a huge effort to swallow my rage. But the only thing that matters now is giving Quinn enough time to get my daughter safely away from this man and his insane mother.

  I crouch down before him. ‘Luca, I know I wasn’t the perfect mother,’ I say, my tone conciliatory. ‘But I’ve loved the very bones of our girl, since the moment she was born.’ My voice cracks. ‘When she was taken from me, it was like my heart ha
d been ripped out while it was still beating. I may not have been a natural mother or even a good one. But I am her mother, Luca. And she needs me.’

  For a moment, I think I’ve reached him.

  ‘You were never there,’ he says. ‘How many times did you actually give Lottie a bath? Feed her or change her? The only thing you ever cared about was work.’

  ‘My job never mattered more to me than Lottie! Do you have any idea what the last two years have been like for me, Luca? Can you even imagine?’

  ‘I follow the news,’ he says, shortly.

  ‘Then you know I’ve flown all over the world looking for her! Every time there was a sighting, I was on another plane! Morocco, Algeria, Thailand – you broke my heart a thousand times!’ I can no longer control my anger. ‘How could you do that to me, Luca? How could you put me through that? You destroyed my life!’

  ‘I missed her, too!’ Luca says. ‘I thought I’d never see her again, and then Marc called my mother and offered a solution. What was I supposed to do?’

  I’m exhausted by the futility of it all: our missteps, our mistakes. All the damage we’ve caused the child at the centre of our conflict.

  ‘Luca, this has to stop,’ I say wearily. ‘We have to stop. We have to do what’s best for Lottie now. She needs a normal life.’

  ‘She has a normal life.’

  ‘Does she have friends? Go to school?’

  ‘Of course! I don’t keep her in a cage, Alex. She goes to the school in the village. We use my mother’s name. She’s Carlotta Bonfiglio now. Carli.’ His voice fills with pride. ‘She’s the tallest in her class. The smartest, too. She’s happy, Alex. She has everything she needs.’

  ‘Except her mother!’

  ‘She has her nonna,’ Luca says.

  I glance over to the stone bench where Elena was sitting, but the old woman has gone inside. ‘Your mother isn’t well,’ I say. ‘She shouldn’t be looking after a child.’

  ‘Alex, I know you’ve missed her, but she’s settled here now. She’s safe, and she’s happy. If you want what’s best for her, leave her where she is.’

  ‘Living a lie?’

  ‘Living a normal life,’ Luca says. ‘She doesn’t know anything else, Alex. She doesn’t remember her life in London with you. This is her home now. And you know what’ll happen if you take her back. The media won’t leave her alone. She’ll spend the rest of her life in a goldfish bowl. Is that really what you want for her?’

  For the first time, I feel a twinge of doubt. Luca’s right: Lottie Martini is public property. She’ll never be left in peace. But Carli Bonfiglio is just an ordinary child, albeit with an extraordinary story.

  ‘I can’t leave her,’ I say. ‘I can’t lose her again, Luca.’

  ‘So stay with us.’

  ‘Stay?’

  ‘What d’you have to go back to?’ He gestures around him at the beautiful villa, the fountain, the vast, rocky expanse surrounding us. ‘Think about it. You could stay here and be Signora Bonfiglio, a normal wife and mother. You could escape your media prison and live here, with us.’

  For a brief moment, I’m tempted.

  A normal wife and mother.

  ‘We could be a family again,’ Luca says. ‘Isn’t that what you want?’

  ‘We haven’t been a family in a long time, Luca.’

  He puts his hands on my shoulders, so I’ve got nowhere to look but at him. ‘I never wanted to leave you,’ he says. ‘I didn’t want the divorce; not then, not now. You’ve no idea how many times I’ve wanted to call you. We can turn back the clock, Alex. It can be like it used to be, before your work got in the way. Remember how good we used to be together?’

  My body remembers.

  Luca presses his advantage. His thumb traces the line of my jaw and I feel an electric tug at my nipples.

  ‘Stay with me,’ he says softly. ‘We can give Lottie her family back. You’ll be free of the media circus. It’ll be you and me again, cara. Just the three of us. Even better than before.’

  chapter 80

  alex

  He makes it sound so easy. And he’s right: I could stay here. No one knows where I am, apart from Quinn, and I can trust her. I flew here on a false passport. Luca and I could live here quietly, under the radar, an ordinary family again.

  Or I could wait till Quinn comes back with the cavalry and take Lottie back to England. Try to rebuild our lives and continue to juggle work with raising Lottie. Maybe one day even fashion a future with a man I can trust, a man like Jack. But at what cost to Lottie? Luca did a wicked thing when he snatched her from me, but tearing her life apart a second time won’t fix that. And it’ll all play out in the fierce glare of the press.

  Lottie’s age won’t save her from the media storm.

  Staying here is a lovely fantasy. But that’s all it is: a fantasy.

  I can’t trust Luca. I’m not even sure he is Luca, not really.

  A head injury that leaves you in a coma for six weeks could cause permanent brain damage. Judging by his scar, the blow was to the front of his head, which houses the part of the brain that controls personality and impulse control. I can’t believe the man I knew would’ve kidnapped our daughter.

  But even if by some miracle Luca and I managed to revive our relationship, I can’t stay home and make pasta from scratch for the rest of my life, and I’m not qualified to work in Italian law. What would I do, once the novelty of being a stay-at-home mamma wears off? Have more babies? Sit at home looking after Luca’s crazy mother while he chases anything in a skirt?

  I hear the sound of a car in the distance. There’s a crunch of gears and I realise Quinn must’ve reached our vehicle. I need to distract Luca.

  I press my body a little closer to his.

  ‘What would we tell Lottie?’ I ask, as if I’m weakening.

  ‘The truth,’ he says. ‘She thinks she came to live with me because her mamma had to go to work and help people. And now you’ve come back.’

  ‘But you said she won’t remember me.’

  ‘I said she doesn’t remember her life in London. Of course she remembers you. I’m not a monster, Alex.’ His lips brush my neck. ‘I talk about you all the time. We need you. We both need you.’

  ‘I have to think about it, Luca. You need to give me some time—’

  But I don’t have time.

  Something hits me, hard, in the lower back. I stumble against Luca, caught off-guard. I’d fall if he weren’t there to catch me.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘I’m fine.’

  I try to find my balance again, but my legs won’t work properly. My chest feels oddly tight; I can’t seem to suck in enough air.

  ‘I need to sit down,’ I say, dizzy.

  Black spots dance before my eyes. Luca staggers under my dead weight, unable to hold me up, and the two of us slide to the ground. I lean against the courtyard wall. The pain in my back is getting worse.

  Everything starts to take on an unreal quality, as if in a dream. Luca is holding me and shouting at his mother in Italian – Mamma, cosa hai fatto? – and Elena is laughing.

  She has a knife in her hand.

  Luca says something about calling for help. I’ll be back in a minute, Alex, just stay with me. I slide down the wall, until my left cheek rests on the flagstones. I can smell the bougainvillea in the planter just a few feet away.

  I think I always knew it would end like this. But it’s OK. Lottie will be safe. Quinn will take her to Harriet and my sister will look after her. Luca and I have failed spectacularly as Lottie’s parents, but Harriet will do better.

  He’s on the phone now, demanding an ambulance, but I know it’ll get here too late. Everything is swimming in and out of focus. The ground rocks gently beneath me, as if I’m being cradled in a warm bath.

  The darkness is closing in. My vision narrows, like an old-fashioned camera, the shadows creeping in from the outside. And then suddenly Lottie is standing in front of me. Her hair is longer now and lighter than
I remember; her skin is tanned and her brown legs are long and skinny. The baby fat has gone. Lottie, but not Lottie.

  In my dream, I tell her to run. Run!

  Don’t look back.

  When I blink, she’s gone. Luca’s holding me in his arms, trying to stop the bleeding. I think I tell him not to cry, but I’m not sure if the words are just in my head. I don’t hate him any more. I’m not even angry.

  You have to pay it forward, Alexa, like I’m doing. You have to forgive. That’s the deal you’ve done with the universe.

  I have no regrets. I knew coming here was a risk, but I made my choice a long time ago.

  I chose Lottie.

  HIDDEN HEARTBREAK OF LOST GRANDPARENTS

  COMMENTARY by Emma Donovan

  THE love between a grandchild and their grandparent is often the sweetest and most precious bond a child can know, untainted by the arguments and stresses of everyday family life.

  But it can also be a hidden source of agony.

  As we rightly celebrate the miraculous safe return of Lottie Martini, 6, snatched from a wedding in Florida more than two years ago by her estranged Italian grandmother, we should spare a moment to consider the grief of a woman driven to take such extreme measures.

  Of course, no one condones 77-year-old Elena Martini’s actions for a moment. It’s impossible to imagine the suffering that Lottie’s mother, Alexa, 31, endured, not knowing if her cherished only daughter was alive or dead.

  But if this tragic story teaches us anything, it’s that the importance of the bond between grandparent and child cannot be understated.

  Every child should have the right to access to their wider family, especially their grandparents, unless there is good reason to keep them apart to protect the child.

  Across Britain, thousands of grannies and granddads are denied access to their grandchildren, creating a hidden well of heartbreak.

  Many are the collateral damage of divorce – especially if they’re the father’s parents. For many isolated older people, particularly if they’ve been bereaved, grandchildren are literally a lifeline.