Chapter 3 - THE BRACELET FROM THE GRAVE
The silence in the dining room was broken only by the sound of rain lashing against the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Vincent stood perfectly still, his eyes locked on the vintage diamond bracelet. The diamonds caught the light of the chandelier, sparking with a cold, mocking brilliance. Three years ago, he had stood in the freezing rain at the cemetery, kissing his late wife Elena’s forehead one last time, making sure that specific bracelet—her favorite heirloom—was clasped securely around her wrist before they closed the casket.
“You robbed her grave,” Vincent breathed, the words tearing from his throat like jagged glass.
“No!” Rosalind screamed, her hands flying to her mouth, tears of sheer panic ruining her makeup. She backed against the heavy oak sideboard, trapped. “Vincent, I swear to God, I didn't dig it up! I wouldn't do that!”
“Then how do you have it?!” Vincent roared, finally losing his ironclad control. The sheer volume of his voice shook the crystal glasses on the table.
Sophie whimpered, shrinking behind Clara’s legs. Clara immediately knelt down, wrapping her arms protectively around the little girl, covering Sophie’s ears to shield her from the violence erupting in the room.
“She gave it to me!” Rosalind sobbed hysterically, sliding down against the sideboard until she was clutching the edge of the mahogany table. “Elena gave it to me!”
Vincent stopped. The muscles in his jaw feathered with absolute fury. “Elena died in a car crash on the interstate. She was alone. Her car caught fire. The police handed me her charred wedding ring in a plastic bag. She didn't give anything to anyone.”
“She wasn't alone!” Rosalind cried, her chest heaving. The perfectly manicured mafia fiancée was unraveling, the ugly truth spilling out in her desperation to survive Vincent’s wrath. “I was with her, Vincent! I was in the passenger seat!”
Clara felt a cold sweat break out across her back. The official police report had stated Elena Hale had been driving alone when a drunk driver forced her SUV off a bridge. It had been the tragedy that nearly broke the Hale syndicate.
“You were in the car?” Vincent asked, his voice dropping to a terrifying, deadly calm.
Rosalind nodded frantically, wiping mascara from her cheeks. “We had lunch that day. We were driving back. The truck hit us... the car rolled. I managed to crawl out before the engine caught fire. Elena was pinned behind the steering wheel.”
Vincent stepped closer, looming over her like a god of war. “You left my wife to burn?”
“I tried to pull her out!” Rosalind shrieked, defensive anger bleeding into her terror. “She was stuck! Her legs were crushed! When she smelled the gasoline, she knew she wasn't going to make it. She unclasped the bracelet and shoved it into my hand. She told me to give it to Sophie when she was old enough!”
“And yet,” Vincent sneered, his dark eyes filled with absolute disgust. “Sophie is seven years old. And that bracelet was hidden in your designer purse, packed next to a one-way ticket to a boarding school for my daughter.”
Rosalind had no answer. She had stolen a dying woman’s final gift to her child, kept it for herself, and spent three years manipulating her way into Vincent’s bed.
Vincent looked at Clara, who was holding Sophie tightly.
“Clara. Take Sophie to the library. Lock the doors. Do not come out until I come for you,” Vincent ordered.
“Yes, sir,” Clara whispered. She scooped the little girl into her arms. Sophie buried her face in Clara’s neck, crying softly. Clara didn't look back as she hurried out of the dining room and down the long, shadowed hallway.
She reached the massive oak doors of the library, slipped inside, and threw the heavy brass deadbolts. The library was dark, smelling of leather and old paper. Clara set Sophie down on a plush velvet sofa, wrapping a cashmere throw blanket around her trembling shoulders.
“It’s okay, baby,” Clara murmured, stroking Sophie’s hair. “You’re safe. Nobody is sending you away.”
“Why is Rosalind so mean?” Sophie hiccuped, clutching her stuffed rabbit tightly against her chest.
“Because some people are broken inside, sweetie,” Clara said gently. “But your daddy loves you very much. He’s going to fix this.”
Clara stood up to pace the room, her adrenaline spiking. She walked over to the heavy mahogany desk in the center of the library to turn on a small reading lamp.
As she reached for the brass switch, her hand brushed against something lying on the polished wood.
It was a thick, manila folder.
Clara wouldn't have looked twice at it, but the word stamped across the front in red ink caught her eye: ST. JUDE’S ACADEMY.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. Rosalind must have left the admissions file on Vincent’s desk after forging his signature.
Clara opened the folder. Inside were the intake forms for Sophie, stamped and approved. But tucked behind the intake forms was a secondary document. A bank transfer receipt.
Clara pulled it out, bringing it closer to the lamplight.
It was a wire transfer for fifty thousand dollars, paid directly to Rosalind’s personal offshore account.
But it wasn't a refund. It was a payment.
Clara looked at the sender’s name printed at the top of the receipt.
SILAS VANE.
The blood completely drained from Clara’s face.
Silas Vane was Vincent’s underboss. He was the second-in-command of the Hale syndicate, a ruthless, terrifying man with a silver snake tattooed on his neck. Silas was the man who had hired Clara eight months ago.
Why would Vincent’s underboss be paying Rosalind fifty thousand dollars on the exact same day she secretly enrolled Sophie in a lockdown facility?
Before Clara could process the horrifying implication, the heavy brass doorknob of the library rattled violently.
Someone was trying to get in.
“Vincent?” Clara called out, her voice shaking.
“Open the door, Clara,” a deep, raspy voice replied from the hallway.
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It wasn't Vincent.
It was Silas.
