Chapter 2 - THE ROSARY IN HER HAND
Damian Costa closed the door behind him.
Beatrice immediately tightened her fingers around mine.
I noticed because my injured palm protested.
I tried not to show it.
Damian noticed anyway.
His eyes dropped to the brown paper towels wrapped around my hand.
“What happened?”
“Occupational disagreement with a glass pitcher.”
His expression did not change.
“You should have reported it.”
“I’m reporting it now.”
“That isn’t what reporting means.”
“I’m new to corporate culture.”
“You’ve worked here four months.”
“Still adjusting.”
Beatrice looked from me to her son.
Something changed in her face.
Fear.
Not the wild confusion I had seen when she fought the nurses.
This was quieter.
Older.
“Don’t let him take it.”
Damian stopped.
I leaned toward her.
“Take what, Beatrice?”
She stared at him.
“Gabriel.”
The room changed.
Damian became completely still.
I knew enough about the Costa family to recognize the name.
Gabriel Costa.
Damian’s older brother.
Dead eleven years.
Staff never mentioned him.
The few times I had heard the name whispered downstairs, it came with the same word.
Traitor.
Gabriel had supposedly sold information about Costa trucking routes to the Bellandi family during one of Chicago’s bloodier territorial disputes.
He died near the docks two weeks later.
At least that was the version everyone believed.
Damian took one step toward the bed.
“Ma.”
Beatrice recoiled.
“No.”
“It’s me.”
“No red truck.”
Damian froze.
I looked between them.
“What red truck?”
His eyes moved to me.
“Leave.”
Beatrice gripped harder.
“No.”
“Ms. Bennett.”
That was my name.
Mara Bennett.
Damian rarely used it.
Normally I was simply the maid moving quietly through his hallways.
Now it sounded like an order.
I tried to pull my hand free.
Beatrice made a frightened sound.
“Don’t leave me.”
That settled it.
I looked at Damian.
“I’m staying until she lets go.”
His jaw tightened.
“Five minutes.”
“You can put it on my performance review.”
He stared.
I stared back.
Apparently exhaustion still had custody of my self-preservation.
Then Beatrice reached beneath the neckline of her nightgown.
She pulled out a silver rosary.
Old.
Darkened from age.
One side of the crucifix was scratched.
She pushed it into my hand.
“Gabriel’s.”
Damian’s face changed.
He crossed the room.
“Where did you get that?”
Beatrice flinched again.
I instinctively covered her hand with mine.
Damian stopped.
Not because I told him.
Because he saw her fear.
That seemed to hurt him.
He lowered his voice.
“Ma.”
She stared at the rosary.
“He gave it back.”
“When?”
“Red truck.”
Her breathing quickened.
I rubbed slow circles over her fingers.
“Beatrice, stay here with me.”
She looked at me.
“The applesauce is terrible.”
“Yes.”
A tiny flicker of recognition.
“It tastes like wallpaper paste.”
“Exactly.”
Her shoulders relaxed slightly.
Damian watched.
Not me.
Her.
“Can you ask her about Gabriel?” he said.
I looked at him.
“I’m not interrogating your mother.”
“I didn’t say interrogate.”
“You had the face.”
“What face?”
“The one that makes armed men apologize for existing.”
For one second, his eyes almost changed.
Then Beatrice whispered, “He wasn’t bad.”
Damian forgot me.
“What?”
“Gabriel.”
Her eyes filled.
“He wasn’t bad.”
Damian slowly sat in the wooden chair opposite us.
For a man rumored to control half the freight moving through three Chicago districts, he suddenly looked like a son who had been waiting eleven years for one sentence.
“What happened to him, Ma?”
Beatrice stared at the window.
“Victor said the Bellandis paid him.”
Damian’s expression hardened.
Victor Serrano.
I knew that name too.
One of Damian’s senior captains.
He controlled trucking contracts south of the river and had deep influence with two dock unions.
Victor ate Sunday dinner at this house twice a month.
“He showed your father the money,” Beatrice continued.
“What money?”
“Gabriel’s account.”
Damian leaned forward.
“Gabriel took money?”
She slapped the blanket.
“No!”
Her voice rose sharply.
I immediately looked at Damian.
“Back up.”
His eyes flashed.
I did not care.
“Please.”
That word worked better.
Damian moved his chair six inches farther away.
Beatrice’s breathing eased.
She turned the rosary over in my palm.
Tiny brass glinted beneath the cross.
I frowned.
Something was attached behind the crucifix.
A key.
Not modern.
Small.
Old brass.
Damian saw it.
His face went pale.
“What does that open?”
Beatrice whispered, “My sewing table.”
Damian looked toward the corner.
An antique walnut sewing cabinet stood beneath the window.
I had dusted it every morning.
Never opened it.
Beatrice watched me.
“You.”
“What?”
“You open.”
Damian started to rise.
She screamed.
“No!”
He stopped immediately.
I squeezed her fingers.
“All right.”
I walked to the sewing cabinet.
The key fit a narrow lock hidden beneath the upper drawer.
Click.
Damian stood behind me but did not interfere.
Inside were folded handkerchiefs.
Old thread.
Buttons.
A dried white rose.
And a man’s wristwatch.
Silver face.
Brown leather strap.
The crystal cracked directly across the number eleven.
Damian picked it up.
His thumb stopped over the engraving.
G.C.
Gabriel Costa.
Under the watch was a photograph.
Four men standing beside a red freight truck.
The photograph looked twenty years old.
A younger Gabriel.
Damian’s father, Arturo Costa.
Victor Serrano.
And a man I did not recognize.
Someone had drawn a circle around Victor in blue ink.
On the back were six words.
VICTOR CHANGED THE TRUCK. ASK RENATO.
Damian read it twice.
Then a third time.
His uncle Renato Costa had served as consigliere to Damian’s father.
After Arturo died, Renato became Damian’s closest adviser.
If anyone in the Costa organization represented loyalty, it was Renato.
Beatrice whispered behind us.
“He saw.”
Damian turned.
“Renato saw Victor change the truck?”
She nodded.
“Why didn’t he tell me?”
Her face crumpled.
“Because your father told him not to.”
The answer hit Damian harder than Victor’s name.
His father had been dead seven years.
For seven years Damian had spoken of Arturo Costa with a complicated respect bordering on reverence.
Arturo had rebuilt the family after Gabriel’s disgrace.
At least that was the story.
Damian picked up the photograph.
His voice became dangerously quiet.
“Why would my father protect Victor?”
Beatrice looked confused again.
I thought the moment was gone.
Then she stared at Damian with sudden clarity.
“Because Gabriel wasn’t meeting the Bellandis to betray us.”
Damian stopped breathing.
May you like
Beatrice pointed at the photograph.
“He was meeting them to stop the war.”
