Chapter 8 - THE ROSARY THAT FELL TO THE FLOOR
The vintage diamond and sapphire ring sparkled maliciously in the dim light of the study.
“If my mother was wearing this the night she died,” Matteo said slowly, his mind racing, “and Bianca’s father died in the same crash… how did Bianca get it?”
“She said her father was supposed to run Margaret off the road and steal the ledgers,” I recalled, shivering at the memory of Bianca’s cruel confession.
“Yes, but the cars crashed. Both drivers died,” Matteo paced the room, the ring tightly gripped in his palm. “The police report said my mother’s personal effects were lost in the wreckage. If Arthur Voss died instantly, he couldn't have stolen the ring.”
We stared at each other as the horrifying truth settled over us.
Someone else was there that night.
Someone who survived the crash, approached the wreckage, took the ring off Margaret DeLuca’s finger, and gave it to Arthur Voss’s family.
“My father,” Matteo whispered, looking sick. “My father went to the crash site. He took her ring before the police arrived.”
“And he gave it to Bianca’s mother,” I finished, feeling a cold knot form in my stomach. “As part of the bribe to keep her quiet.”
It was the ultimate betrayal. The man had not only caused his wife’s death but had looted her body to save himself.
Matteo closed his eyes, leaning heavily against the desk. For a moment, he looked completely broken. The legacy of his family was built on a foundation of blood and lies.
I walked over and gently placed my hand on his arm.
“Matteo,” I said softly. “He can’t hurt her anymore. He can’t hurt us.”
Matteo opened his eyes, looking down at me. The anger slowly faded, replaced by a profound, protective warmth.
“You’re right,” he said, taking a deep breath. “The past is dead. We are the future of this family.”
He walked over to the wastebasket and threw the vintage ring inside, right on top of the tarnished silver rosary.
“Tomorrow, I’m having that trash burned,” Matteo said with finality.
Just then, there was a soft knock on the study door.
Mrs. Whitmore peeked her head in. She looked exhausted, leaning heavily on her wooden cane, but her eyes were bright and clear.
“The police have left,” the elderly woman said softly. “The house is empty. The staff has gone to their quarters.”
She looked at me, then at Matteo, and a gentle, knowing smile touched her lips.
“I think it’s time,” Mrs. Whitmore said.
Matteo nodded. He reached down and scooped Leo into his arms again. The little boy was half-asleep, his head resting heavily on Matteo’s shoulder.
“Come on, Emily,” Matteo said, gesturing toward the door. “Let’s go to the living room. There’s one last thing we need to do.”
We followed Mrs. Whitmore out of the study and down the grand hallway. The mansion was completely silent now, the crystal chandeliers turned off, leaving only the warm glow of the wall sconces.
We entered the main living room. A fire was crackling in the large stone fireplace, casting a golden light across the plush leather sofas.
Mrs. Whitmore sat down in an armchair, resting her cane beside her.
Matteo set Leo down on the sofa, tucking a soft cashmere throw over him. The little boy immediately drifted off to sleep, his chest rising and falling peacefully.
Then, Matteo turned to me.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the small silver key. The one Bianca had stolen from my room. The one that unlocked my adoptive mother’s cedar chest.
He held it out to me.
“Your adoptive mother kept this for twenty-eight years,” Matteo said quietly. “She protected it, just like she protected you. She was a hero, Emily.”
I took the key, my fingers brushing against his. “Thank you.”
“There’s one more thing,” Mrs. Whitmore said from her chair.
She reached into her cloth bag—the same bag that had held the baby blanket and the child’s drawing—and pulled out a small, ornate wooden box. It was covered in intricate carvings of vines and roses.
“Margaret gave this to me the day before she fled,” Mrs. Whitmore said, her voice filled with emotion. “She told me to keep it safe. She said that if she didn't survive, I was to wait until both her children were together, and give it to them.”
She held the box out to us.
“It requires a key, Emily.”
I looked at the silver key in my hand.
My heart pounded as I stepped forward. I took the heavy wooden box from Mrs. Whitmore’s frail hands.
Matteo stood right beside me, his shoulder touching mine.
I inserted the silver key into the small brass lock on the front of the box.
It fit perfectly.
I turned it. There was a satisfying click.
Slowly, I lifted the wooden lid.
Inside the box resting on a bed of dark blue velvet, was a thick, leather-bound book.
It was my mother’s diary.
But it wasn't just a diary. Tucked under the leather cover, slightly protruding from the edge, was a small, folded piece of paper with a wax seal.
May you like
And written on the front of the paper, in that familiar, elegant cursive, were two words.
For Emily.
