Chapter 8 - The Sins Of The Father
The attic was stiflingly hot, but a cold sweat broke out across my neck.
I picked up the note again, my hands shaking so violently the paper rattled. I kept my promise to the Moretti family. I hid the truth about the night Teresa’s husband died.
“Nora,” Marco said, his voice dropping to a dangerous hush. He grabbed the note from my hands and read it himself. His jaw tightened until the muscles ticked. “Do you know what this means?”
“I don’t understand,” I stammered, staring at the silver rosary resting on the red velvet. “My father was a mechanic. He worked at the city bus depot. How could he possibly know anything about the Moretti family?”
“Vittorio Moretti,” Marco said, staring at the dust-covered window. “Luca’s father. He was killed thirty years ago in a car accident. The brakes on his limousine failed on the mountain pass. It was ruled a tragic mechanical failure. The family always suspected a rival syndicate, but they could never prove it.”
The pieces clicked together in my mind with a sickening snap.
“A mechanical failure,” I whispered. “My father was a mechanic.”
Marco looked at me, the implication hanging in the heavy air between us. “If Jack Ellis tampered with those brakes... if he was the one who killed Luca’s father...”
“No!” I shouted, stepping back, bumping into a stack of cardboard boxes. “No, my father was a good man! He wouldn't murder someone!”
“He was in massive debt before you were born,” Marco argued gently, trying to keep me calm. “I saw the old bank statements in the lockbox. He owed a lot of dangerous people money. Maybe someone paid him to cut those brake lines.”
“Then why would he keep this rosary?” I demanded, pointing at the wooden box.
I reached down and picked up the heavy silver beads. As I lifted them, a small, silver pendant attached to the crucifix caught the dim light.
It was engraved.
I rubbed my thumb over the tarnish, revealing the letters.
V.M.
Vittorio Moretti.
It was the dead man’s rosary.
“Marco,” I breathed, feeling physically sick. “If Luca finds out about this... if he thinks our father killed his father...”
“He would have to kill us,” Marco said bluntly, the mafia lieutenant in him taking over. “Blood demands blood in this world, Nora. It’s the oldest rule in the book.”
“Luca wouldn't hurt me,” I said, but my voice wavered.
“Maybe not you,” Marco said, looking at the floor. “But I am a soldier in his family. If I am the son of the man who murdered the don... I’m a dead man walking.”
Panic seized my chest. The beautiful, safe life I had just started building was crumbling before my eyes. “What do we do?”
Marco took the rosary and the note from my hands. He placed them back in the wooden box and closed the lid.
“We burn it,” Marco said coldly. “We take it to the backyard, we burn the note, and we melt the silver. We bury this secret with our father.”
He picked up the box and turned toward the attic stairs.
“Marco, wait,” I said, grabbing his arm. “If we destroy it, we’ll never know the truth. We’ll live the rest of our lives wondering if our father was a murderer.”
“I can live with that,” Marco said, his eyes hard. “I can't live with Luca putting a bullet in my head.”
Before I could argue, my phone buzzed in my pocket.
I pulled it out. The screen flashed Luca’s name.
I swallowed hard, trying to slow my racing heart. I answered. “Hello?”
“Nora,” Luca’s voice was warm, a stark contrast to the terror freezing my veins. “I am out front. I brought lunch. Is Marco still helping you pack?”
My eyes darted to Marco, who was holding the wooden box like it was a live bomb.
“Yes,” I managed to say, my voice squeaking slightly. “We’re up in the attic.”
“Excellent,” Luca said. “I’ll come up.”
“No!” I shouted, too loudly.
There was a pause on the line. The warmth in Luca’s voice vanished, replaced instantly by the sharp, analytical tone of a boss who senses deception.
“Nora,” Luca said slowly. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” I lied, my voice shaking. “It’s just... incredibly dusty up here. You’ll ruin your suit. We’ll come down.”
I hung up before he could respond.
Marco and I stared at each other.
“He knows,” Marco whispered. “He heard it in your voice.”
We rushed down the stairs, Marco shoving the wooden box deep into a duffel bag in the hallway closet.
When we walked into the kitchen, Luca was already standing there. He had placed two bags of takeout on the counter, but he wasn't unpacking them.
He was staring at the floorboards, his arms crossed over his chest.
When he looked up, his dark eyes scanned my pale face, then moved to Marco’s rigid posture.
“Something happened,” Luca stated. It wasn't a question.
“Just tired, Boss,” Marco said, forcing a casual tone. “Lots of heavy lifting.”
Luca didn't look at Marco. He kept his eyes on me.
“Nora,” Luca stepped forward, closing the distance between us. He reached out, taking my cold, trembling hands in his warm ones. “You promised me there would be no more secrets between us. What did you find?”
I looked into his eyes. The eyes of the man who had protected me, defended me, and treated me with more respect than anyone in my life.
I couldn't lie to him.
I pulled my hands away, tears welling in my eyes.
“Marco,” I choked out, not looking at my brother. “Bring him the box.”
Marco froze. “Nora. Don't.”
“Bring it,” I sobbed. “He has to know.”
Marco looked like he was walking to the gallows. He retrieved the wooden box and placed it on the kitchen island.
Luca looked at the box, then at me. He popped the broken latch and lifted the lid.
He saw the silver rosary.
All the color drained from Luca’s face. He picked up the beads, his thumb running over the engraved V.M.. Then he read the yellowed note.
The silence in the kitchen was heavier than gravity.
Luca slowly lowered the paper. He didn't look angry. He looked devastated.
“Your father,” Luca whispered, looking at me. “Your father was the mechanic.”
I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for the explosion. Waiting for him to order Marco’s death. Waiting for him to turn his back on me forever.
Instead, Luca let out a ragged breath and reached into his jacket pocket.
He pulled out a faded, folded photograph and placed it on the counter next to the rosary.
“Look at this,” Luca commanded softly.
I opened my eyes. I looked at the photograph.
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It was a picture of a young Vittorio Moretti standing in front of a broken-down limousine. Standing next to him, laughing and holding a wrench, was my father, Jack Ellis.
“My father didn't hate your father, Nora,” Luca said, his voice breaking. “They were best friends.”
