Chapter 6 - THE BLOODY ROSARY
“What rosary?” Matteo asked, his voice tightening.
Sophie’s hands were shaking so badly she could barely hold onto Rosie’s shoulders. “When I got to the hospital, my mother couldn't speak. Her lungs were failing. But she forced something into my hand. It was a silver rosary. It was covered in blood.”
“Where is it?” Matteo demanded.
“In my room. I keep it in a shoebox under my bed. I thought it belonged to her.”
“Show me. Now.”
Matteo didn't wait for his guests. He grabbed Sophie’s hand and pulled her toward the servant’s staircase. Rosie ran after them, refusing to leave Sophie’s side.
Vanessa tried to stand, but two of Matteo’s massive bodyguards placed heavy hands on her shoulders, forcing her back into the chair.
Sophie’s bedroom was small, sparsely furnished, and freezing cold. The window had been left open by Vanessa during her earlier search, the curtains blowing wildly in the night air.
Sophie dropped to her knees, pulling a battered cardboard shoebox from beneath her narrow iron bed.
She opened the lid. Inside, resting on a bed of old letters, was a heavy, ornate silver rosary. The beads were dark with dried, two-year-old blood.
Matteo fell to his knees beside her. He didn't care about his tailored suit or the dust on the floor. He stared at the cross.
“Elena’s,” he choked out. “My grandfather gave this to her on our wedding day.”
He reached out with trembling fingers and picked up the cross.
“Look at the back,” Sophie whispered.
Matteo flipped the heavy silver crucifix over. The back was hollowed out, featuring a tiny, hidden latch.
With a soft click, Matteo popped the latch open.
A tightly rolled piece of micro-paper fell into his palm.
He unrolled it. The handwriting was frantic, jagged, and stained with a single drop of blood.
Matteo read the words aloud, his voice breaking.
“Matteo. If you find this, I am dead. Arthur Whitmore didn't just plan this with his daughter. He is the head of the Moretti cartel. He’s using Vanessa to infiltrate our family. Protect Rosie. Protect—”
The note cut off.
The silence in the small bedroom was shattered by a deafening gunshot downstairs.
Matteo spun around.
May you like
Footsteps thundered up the wooden stairs.
Arthur Whitmore stood in the doorway of Sophie’s bedroom, holding a smoking revolver.
