Chapter 3 - THE TICKET TO NOWHERE
Dante drew his gun.
The heavy steel weapon caught the chandelier’s light, aiming directly at Matteo’s chest.
Guests screamed. Women in evening gowns scrambled toward the grand mahogany doors.
But Matteo didn't flinch.
He didn't even look at the gun. He looked at the man who had stood by his side for fifteen years.
"Dante," Matteo said quietly. "Are you really going to pull that trigger in front of my son?"
Dante’s hand trembled. Sweat beaded on his forehead.
"I have orders, Boss. You know how the Syndicate works."
"I am the Syndicate," Matteo replied.
"Not anymore," Serena hissed. She had backed away, her face twisted in a vicious sneer. "My father took over the moment your wife burned in that car. You're nothing but a figurehead, Matteo."
I pulled Oliver behind me, shielding his small body with my own.
"Don't look, sweetie," I whispered, but Oliver was staring at Dante.
"Dante," Oliver said softly. "Are you a bad guy now?"
The head of security swallowed hard. He looked at the six-year-old boy he had taught to ride a bicycle.
That second of hesitation was all Matteo needed.
Matteo lunged.
He moved with terrifying speed, grabbing Dante’s wrist and twisting it upward. The gun fired into the ceiling, raining plaster down on the dining table. Two loyal guards, who hadn't defected to Serena’s side, tackled Dante to the floor.
Serena tried to run, her high heels slipping on the marble floor.
I didn't think. I just moved.
I threw myself forward and grabbed the silk train of her gown, pulling her backward. Serena shrieked, crashing to her knees.
"Don't touch me, you filthy maid!" she screamed, clawing at my hands.
"Lock the doors!" Matteo roared to the remaining loyal men. "Nobody leaves this estate. Throw Dante in the cellar."
He turned back to Serena, who was breathing heavily on the floor.
"If my wife is alive," Matteo said, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper, "you are going to tell me exactly where she is."
Serena laughed—a broken, hysterical sound.
"You'll never find her. She abandoned you, Matteo! She made a deal with my father to disappear, and she left her precious son behind to save her own skin!"
My heart hammered. Was it true? Had Isabella willingly walked away?
I looked at Oliver. He was shaking his head.
"Mommy didn't leave me," Oliver said firmly. "She told me to wait."
Matteo walked over to his son and knelt down.
"Oliver. The other letter. Where did Mommy hide it?"
"In my bedroom," Oliver whispered. "Under the loose board."
Matteo stood up, grabbing my arm. "Bring him. We're going upstairs."
The three of us rushed up the grand staircase.
Oliver’s room was dark, illuminated only by a small nightlight. The little boy marched straight to the corner near his bookshelf, pointing to a scratch on the hardwood floor.
Matteo pried the board up with his bare hands.
Inside the dusty hollow was a second envelope.
Matteo tore it open.
A heavy, silver rosary fell into his palm.
Matteo stopped breathing. He stared at the beads as if they had bitten him.
"What is it?" I asked.
"My mother's rosary," Matteo said, his voice cracking. "She was buried with this twenty years ago."
I felt a chill run down my spine. Answer One, Open Two. We knew Isabella wasn't dead, but how did she get a rosary from a sealed coffin?
Inside the envelope was a folded piece of paper and a torn train ticket.
The ticket was punched for a station three hundred miles away.
The date on the ticket wasn't from eleven months ago.
It was dated for tomorrow.
"She's moving," Matteo whispered. "She's been waiting for this exact date."
He unfolded the paper. There were only two sentences written in Isabella's elegant script.
Matteo, if you are reading this, Oliver was brave enough to tell the truth. Look inside the pockets of my red winter coat; you'll understand why I had to leave.
Matteo looked at me. "Her red coat. The one she wore the night she disappeared."
"The police said everything in the car burned," I said.
"Serena," Matteo growled. "She took it before the crash."
We sprinted back downstairs. The mansion was in lockdown. Serena was tied to a chair in the drawing-room, her makeup smeared.
"Where is Isabella's coat?" Matteo demanded.
Serena spat at him. "Go to hell."
"Emma," Matteo said without looking at me. "Check Serena's private suite. Tear it apart if you have to."
I ran to the east wing. I threw open Serena's closet, ripping designer dresses off their hangers. Nothing. I checked under the bed. Nothing.
Then, I noticed a false panel at the back of her shoe display.
I smashed it open with a heavy perfume bottle.
Inside, hanging in the dark, was a bloodstained red winter coat.
My hands trembled as I reached into the deep pockets. My fingers brushed against a piece of glossy paper.
I pulled it out and held it up to the light.
It was an ultrasound photograph.
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Dated one week before Isabella’s "death."
Across the top, the doctor had written: Twins. 8 weeks.
