Chapter 2 - THE ROSARY
Isabella Romano didn’t just step forward; she practically collapsed into Abigail.
The wealthy, elegant woman, wrapped in midnight-blue velvet, threw her arms around the stunned waitress. Isabella didn’t care about the spilled champagne, the shattered crystal on the marble floor, or the hundreds of wealthy socialites staring at them in shocked silence. She buried her face in Abigail’s shoulder and sobbed, a deep, primal sound of pure gratitude.
Abigail froze. Her hands hovered awkwardly in the air. She was twenty-five years old, seven months pregnant, and her feet ached so badly she could barely stand. She was used to being invisible. She was used to being yelled at.
She was not used to being held.
“You stayed with me,” Isabella wept, her voice trembling against Abigail’s cheap cotton collar. “The doctors were running. The monitors were screaming. I was so cold. But you held my hand. You kept telling me about your high school art project. You kept talking so I wouldn’t fall asleep.”
Abigail’s breath hitched. The memory rushed back, vivid and sharp.
She had been seventeen, waiting in the ER for a sprained wrist, when the trauma doors flew open. A girl, broken and bleeding, had been wheeled in. It was a rare blood type. AB negative. Abigail had overheard the panicked nurses. Without thinking, she had rolled up her sleeve.
“I remember,” Abigail whispered, her voice cracking.
Matteo Romano stood inches away. The billionaire mafia boss wasn’t looking at the crowd. He wasn’t looking at the furious Vanessa Sinclair. He was looking at Abigail with a reverence that made the air in the ballroom feel thick and heavy.
Vanessa’s voice shattered the moment like cheap glass.
“This is incredibly touching, truly,” Vanessa sneered, her silver silk dress shimmering under the chandeliers as she crossed her arms. “But she still ruined my shoes. And she’s still on the clock. So if the reunion is over, I’d like her manager to escort her out.”
Matteo didn’t yell. He didn’t raise his voice.
He slowly turned his head to look at Vanessa.
“Vanessa,” Matteo said smoothly, his voice dropping into a register that made the hair on the back of Abigail’s neck stand up. “If you speak to her again, I will buy this hotel, fire the entire management staff, and have my security drag you out by your hair.”
Vanessa’s mouth fell open. The color drained from her perfectly contoured face.
Behind her, Richard Sinclair, her father, stepped forward. His face was slick with a sudden, unnatural sweat. He looked like a man who had just realized he was standing on a landmine.
“Matteo, please,” Richard said, holding up both hands in a placating gesture. “Emotions are high. Vanessa spoke out of turn. But let’s not make a scene. This is a charity gala.”
“The scene was made when your daughter struck a pregnant woman,” Matteo replied coldly.
Matteo turned back to Abigail. Isabella finally pulled back, wiping her mascara-stained cheeks, though she kept one hand firmly wrapped around Abigail’s wrist, as if terrified the waitress would vanish again.
“Why are you working here?” Matteo asked. His dark eyes scanned her pale face, the dark circles under her eyes, and the heavy curve of her belly beneath the tight uniform. “You saved my sister’s life. You should have come to us. We would have given you anything.”
Abigail looked down at her scuffed black orthopedic shoes.
“I didn’t do it for a reward, Mr. Romano,” she said quietly. “I did it because she was scared.”
“But you are struggling,” Matteo pressed, his gaze softening, though his posture remained rigid. “You are seven months pregnant, carrying heavy trays at midnight. Where is the father? Where is your husband?”
The question hit Abigail like a physical blow.
The ache in her back was suddenly nothing compared to the crushing weight in her chest.
“He passed away,” Abigail whispered, forcing the words past the lump in her throat. “Six months ago. There was an accident at his construction site.”
Richard Sinclair flinched.
It was a micro-expression. A tiny jerk of his left shoulder. But Matteo Romano, a man who survived by reading the room, saw it immediately.
“Which construction site?” Matteo asked, his voice suddenly sharp.
Abigail hesitated. She looked at Richard, then back to Matteo.
“The Sinclair Heights project,” she said. “He was an independent contractor. The company said it was a safety violation on his part. They… they denied the insurance claim. That’s why I’m working here.”
A deadly silence fell over the immediate circle.
Vanessa looked at her father, confused. Richard looked like he was going to be sick.
Matteo’s jaw tightened. “They denied the claim of a widow?”
Before Richard could speak, a sharp, metallic clatter echoed across the marble.
One of Matteo’s massive security guards, a broad-shouldered man named Luca, had been sweeping the shattered champagne flutes into a dustpan to clear the area for Abigail’s feet.
As he swept, something heavy and silver slid out from under the broken glass. It had fallen from Abigail’s apron pocket when she dropped the tray.
Luca picked it up by the chain.
It was a heavy, tarnished silver rosary.
The beads were made of polished hematite, dark and gleaming, but the silver crucifix was bent at an odd angle, as if it had been crushed by immense force.
“Is this yours, miss?” Luca asked, holding it out.
Abigail reached for it instinctively. “Yes. Thank you. It belonged to my husband. They gave it to me with his belongings after the accident.”
But Isabella Romano gasped.
She took a step backward, her hand flying to her mouth. All the color washed out of her face, leaving her looking like a ghost.
“Isabella?” Matteo asked, stepping toward his sister. “What’s wrong?”
Isabella’s trembling hand pointed at the heavy silver rosary dangling from Luca’s fingers.
“Matteo,” Isabella choked out, her eyes wide with absolute terror. “That rosary. I know that rosary.”
Abigail frowned, clutching her belly defensively. “That’s impossible. My husband bought that at a flea market years ago.”
“No,” Isabella wept, shaking her head violently. She looked at her brother, tears spilling over her lashes. “Matteo, the night of the crash. Eight years ago. The truck that ran our car off the highway.”
The entire ballroom seemed to hold its breath.
May you like
Isabella pointed a shaking finger at the tarnished silver crucifix.
“That exact rosary was hanging from the truck’s rearview mirror. I saw it right before the glass shattered.”
