Chapter 5 - THE TICKET AND THE ROSARY
“We barely made it out,” Marcus coughed, tossing the heavy wool coat onto the glass coffee table. “The fire started on the third floor. Someone dumped accelerant all over the hallway. By the time we kicked your door in, the smoke was blinding.”
I stared at the coat. It smelled of ash and David’s old cologne. I scrambled off the floor and practically crawled to the table, my hands shaking as I grabbed the thick fabric.
“I’m sorry about your home, Emily,” Luca said softly, kneeling beside me. “I swear to you, I will make this right.”
I didn’t answer. I started tearing at the lining of the coat. My fingers fumbled, desperately searching for the seam David had obsessively stitched two years ago. I found it near the bottom hem—a jagged, amateur line of black thread standing out against the navy blue silk.
“Give me a knife,” I demanded.
Marcus handed me a sleek pocketknife. I sliced through the thread, tearing the fabric wide open.
I reached inside the lining. My fingers brushed against cold metal and stiff paper. I pulled the objects out and dropped them onto the glass table.
There were two things.
The first was a simple, faded blue storage locker ticket.
The second was an old, wooden rosary with a rusted silver cross.
“A storage ticket,” Marcus muttered, leaning in. “This is it. The money. Three million dollars sitting in a locker somewhere.”
I picked up the ticket. It was stamped with a date from two weeks before David’s death. But it wasn’t in his name.
“It’s under my maiden name,” I whispered, staring at the faded ink. “Emily Moretti. He didn’t trust Paul. He hid whatever he stole and put it under a name Paul wouldn’t know to look for.”
The silence that followed my words was so thick it felt like I was drowning in it.
I looked up. Luca and Marcus were staring at me with expressions of absolute horror.
“What?” I asked, shrinking back. “What did I say?”
Luca’s eyes slowly moved from my face down to the wooden rosary sitting on the table. He reached out with trembling fingers and picked it up. He traced the beads, stopping at a deep chip in the silver cross.
“Emily,” Luca breathed, his voice hollow. “What did you say your maiden name was?”
“Moretti,” I said, my voice shaking. “Emily Moretti. I was an orphan. I grew up in foster care. David is the only family I ever had. Why are you looking at me like that?”
Luca closed his eyes. A look of profound agony washed over his face.
“The Moretti family,” Marcus said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper, “are the ones who ran the North End. They were our blood rivals for three generations.”
“I don’t know anything about that!” I cried. “I grew up in the system. I didn’t even know my parents!”
“Thirty years ago,” Luca said softly, his eyes still fixed on the rosary. “The head of the Moretti family, Salvatore, was murdered in a sit-down with my father. Salvatore had a wife who vanished the same night, taking their infant daughter with her.”
I shook my head, my mind rejecting the words as fast as he spoke them. “No. No, that’s crazy.”
Luca held up the rosary. “This didn’t belong to David. This belonged to Salvatore Moretti. It was ripped off his neck the night he died. My father kept it as a trophy.”
I stared at the worn wooden beads. My chest tightened until I couldn’t breathe.
“David knew,” Luca whispered, staring at me with a newfound reverence and sorrow. “David knew who you were. He didn’t steal the money for Paul. He stole it to protect you. He put it under your true name because he knew it was your birthright.”
I backed away from the table, hitting the couch. “I’m a waitress. I’m a mother. I’m not a mob boss’s daughter.”
“You are Emily Moretti,” Luca said, stepping toward me. “The last surviving heir to the North End territory. And my brother isn’t hunting you because of the money.”
May you like
Luca looked toward the penthouse windows, overlooking the dark, sprawling city.
“Paul is hunting you because as long as you are alive, the Moretti bloodline survives. He’s not trying to rob you, Emily. He’s trying to finish the massacre our father started.”
