The stolen identity of the Cavallaro heir

Valentina’s POV “That's impossible.” The words make me look up. A man is standing at the back of the church, staring at my father's portrait. I don't know him. At least, I don't think I do. He looks pale. Not sad. Not shocked by the funeral itself. Confused. Almost like he's trying to make sense of something that shouldn't make sense at all. “Are you sure it's him?” he asks. I turn slightly, trying to hear the answer. An older man standing beside him looks toward the portrait. “I'm sure.” The stranger doesn't respond. His eyes remain fixed on the picture. Then he looks toward the coffin. My father's coffin. His expression changes. “Matteo Cavallaro…” Something about the way he says Dad's name makes my stomach feel weird. Why does he say it like that? Like he knows him. Like he's looking at someone he never expected to see again. The older man says something I can't hear. The stranger reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. He looks at the screen. Then at my father's portrait again. His face goes completely still. I take a small step toward them. “What is—” “Valentina?” Mom's voice pulls me back. I turn toward her. When I look at the stranger again, he's still staring at Dad's picture. I don't know who he is. And right now, I don't have the energy to find out. Not yet. A few hours earlier I wake up unusually early. The room is dark. For a few seconds, I lie completely still, staring at the ceiling. Then I remember. Dad. The funeral. I turn my head toward the clock. 5:30 a.m. I sit up slowly. “Are you really gone, Dad?” I ask the empty room. Silence. No answer. That's when it feels real again. My chest tightens. I thought I'd cried enough yesterday to last me a lifetime. Apparently not. A knock comes from my door. “Valentina?” Mom. “I'm awake.” The door opens. Mom pokes her head inside. “I thought you wouldn't be.” “I am.” She walks in and sits on the edge of my bed. Her eyes are red. She looks exhausted. “You haven't slept.” “I know.” “You should rest.” “We have to leave soon.” She studies me. “You're going to drink coffee, aren't you?” I sigh. “Probably.” “Valentina.” “I don't have an appetite.” “You need to eat something.” “I'll eat when we get back.” She gives me a look. “Promise?” “We'll see.” She sighs. Then she reaches over and moves a strand of hair away from my face. “That's my girl.” I almost smile. “Come downstairs when you're ready.” “Okay, Mom.” When I come downstairs, Mom is sitting at the dining table. She's staring at the empty chair across from her. Dad's chair. I stop. “You're thinking about him.” She looks up. “Obviously.” I walk over and sit beside her. For a moment, neither of us says anything. I look at the empty chair. “He was supposed to be here.” Mom's eyes fill with tears. “I know.” “A few days ago, he was here.” My voice cracks. “And today…” I can't finish. Mom reaches for my hand. I squeeze her fingers. “I really miss him.” She looks away for a second. “So do I.” The church is already full when we arrive. People are everywhere. Black suits. Dark dresses. Flowers. Photographs. Everyone looks serious. Everyone looks like they know exactly what they're supposed to do. I don't. I feel like I'm watching someone else's life. Then I see him. Dad. His portrait is beside the altar. He's smiling. That stupid smile. The one he always gives when someone points a camera at him and he doesn't know what to do with his face. For a second, I almost smile. Then I look at the coffin below it. My smile disappears. My father is inside. He's really gone. The priest begins the ceremony. I try to listen. I really do. But my mind keeps drifting back to Dad. His voice. His laugh. The way he always asked about my plans after graduation. Only a few weeks ago, we'd been talking about my first day at his company. “You'll start with me after graduation,” he'd said. I had looked at him. “Start what?” “Work.” “I just graduated.” “Exactly.” “I deserve a break.” He'd laughed. “You've had twenty-three years of breaks.” “That's not how life works, Dad.” “You'll come to the office, learn how everything works, and then you can complain.” “I already complain.” He had smiled. “Come work with me, Valentina.” I had rolled my eyes. At the time, it had been another normal conversation. Now I'd give anything to have it again. I close my eyes. And that's when I hear it. “That's impossible.” I look up. The man at the back of the church is staring at Dad's portrait. The same man from earlier. “Are you sure it's him?” An older man beside him nods. “I'm sure.” The stranger looks toward the coffin. “Matteo Cavallaro…” My eyebrows pull together. Why does he sound like that? The older man says something. The stranger reaches for his phone again. He looks at the screen. Then at the portrait. His expression changes. He looks genuinely shocked. Not grieving. Not sad. Shocked. I take a small step toward them. “What is going on?” “Valentina?” Mom calls my name. I look back at her. When I turn again, the stranger is looking directly at me. Our eyes meet. For a second, neither of us moves. His expression changes again. Like he recognizes something. Or someone. Me? I don't know. I look away first. The service comes to an end. People begin coming toward us, and I brace myself. I know what's coming. “I'm so sorry, Valentina.” “Thank you.” “Your father was a wonderful man.” “Thank you.” “I worked with Matteo for years. He was an incredible businessman.” “Thank you.” I keep smiling. Keep nodding. Keep saying the same two words. At this point, I feel like my mouth is saying them without my permission. Then Mr. Rossi approaches us. He's one of Dad's senior employees. His eyes are wet. “Miss Cavallaro.” “Mr. Rossi.” He shakes my hand. “I'm sorry.” “Thank you.” He hesitates. “Your father spoke about you all the time.” I almost break my composure. A tear falls down my cheek but I wipe it away quickly. I don’t like people seeing me like this. “He did?” He gives me a small smile. “Far too much.” A weak laugh escapes me. “That sounds like him.” “He was very proud of you.” My smile fades slightly. “Thank you.” Mr. Rossi looks at me carefully. “There are a few things at the company that will need your attention when you're ready.” My stomach drops. The company. I was supposed to start there beside Dad. Not in his place. “The company?” He nods. “When you're ready.” I glance at Mom. Then back at him. “I'll be there tomorrow.” “Valentina—” “I have to.” Mom looks like she wants to argue. “I'll be fine.” Mr. Rossi gives me a small nod. “Your father would have wanted you to take your time.” I look toward the coffin. “He wanted me to work with him.” “Yes.” “He didn't know he'd have to leave me everything.” The words leave my mouth before I can stop them. Mr. Rossi doesn't know what to say. Neither do I. “Alright then, I’ll see you tomorrow”. He gives me one last look before walking away. I watch him disappear into the crowd. Then I remember the stranger. I look toward the back of the church. He's still there. “How can this be?” This time, I hear him clearly. What does he even mean? He checks his phone again. Then looks toward Dad's portrait. He says something under his breath. I can't hear the sentence. Someone calls out from behind him: “Salvatore.” The stranger turns. My view gets interrupted. Someone walks between us. For a second, I lose sight of him. When I can see again, he's already heading toward the doors. I watch him leave. I don't stop him. Part of me wants to. But honestly, I have bigger problems to worry about right now. My father's funeral is ending. My father is gone. And I still have no idea what I'm supposed to do with the life he left behind. The drive home is quiet. Mom sits beside me. I stare out the window while the city moves around us. People are walking. Cars are passing. Cafés are open. Everyone is going about their day. I don't understand how the world can look so normal when my life has changed completely. Mom breaks the silence. “Do you want to talk?” “No.” “Okay.” A few seconds pass. “Do you want to talk about him?” I look at her. She gives me a small smile. “That's usually what people mean when they say they want to talk.” “I keep expecting him to call me.” “I know.” “I keep thinking we'll get home and he'll be there.” Mom sighs. “I know baby.” “I don't want memories.” She turns toward me. “What do you want?” “More time.” My voice breaks. She takes my hand. I lean against her shoulder. For the rest of the drive, neither of us speaks. When we get home, everything is still where Dad left it. His shoes. His jacket. His mug. I stop when I notice the empty space where he always threw his keys. He used to toss them onto the table the second he walked through the door. I don't know why the empty space hurts so much. Maybe because it reminds me that he's not coming home. Mom walks into the kitchen. “You should rest. You have a long day tomorrow.” “I know.” “You really are going to the company.” “Yes.” “Why?” I look toward the hallway. “Because Dad wanted me to.” Mom follows my gaze. “His office?” I nod. “You don't have to go in there tonight.” “I'll go in tomorrow.” She nods. “Okay.” “There's a lot I need to figure out.” I look at her. “I don't know how to run his company.” “You'll learn.” “What if I mess up?” “You won't and besides that’s part of learning.” I walk over and hug her. For the first time all day, I stop trying to be strong. I let myself cry against her shoulder. “We'll get through this.” “How?” “One day at a time.” I pull away and wipe my face. “I miss him.” “I know, baby.” She kisses my forehead. “Go get some sleep.” I nod and make my way upstairs. Before I enter my room, I look toward the closed door at the end of the hallway. Dad's office. I've spent my whole life walking through that door whenever I needed him. Now I can't even bring myself to touch the handle. Maybe tomorrow. I turn away. That night, I lie in bed staring at the ceiling. The house is quiet. Too quiet. I think about tomorrow. The company. Dad's office. The employees. Everything he left behind. Then I think about the stranger at the funeral. The way he looked at Dad's photograph. The way he said his name. The way he looked at me. I don't know what that was about. Maybe nothing. Maybe I'll never see him again. I close my eyes. I think about Dad one last time. Not the businessman everyone came to mourn. Not the owner of a company. Just my father. My dad. My best friend. The man who believed I could do anything. I've spent days trying not to say it. Trying to pretend saying it would somehow make it real. But tonight, I finally let myself. “Goodbye, Dad.” My phone vibrates. I open my eyes and reach for it on the bedside table. Unknown Number. I stare at the screen. A message. I read it from the notification. I was at your father's funeral today. We need to talk about Matteo Cavallaro. My heart stops. I read it again. Then again. I don't know who sent it. My mind immediately goes back to the stranger at the funeral. The way he’d stared at dad’s portrait. The way he’d said his name. The way he’d looked at me. Could it be him?