Chapter 3 - The Missing Gold Watch
“Mr. Russo,” I whispered.
My hands shook so violently I nearly dropped the phone.
Matteo turned toward me, annoyed by the interruption.
Then he saw my face.
I stepped forward and placed the phone on the table beside the faded beach photograph.
Anthony saw the screen first.
All the blood drained from his face.
“Lily,” he choked out.
He grabbed the phone, his fingers trembling as he stared at the image of his terrified six-year-old daughter.
“No, no, no,” Anthony panicked. “Lauren, where is she? Where did you leave her?”
Lauren stared at the screen in pure shock.
“She was at the hotel in Manhattan. I left her with the nanny.”
Matteo picked up the phone.
He zoomed in on the photo.
The little girl was crying. Her small hands were clutching Rose’s stolen pearls tightly against her chest.
But Matteo wasn’t looking at the girl.
He was looking at the man holding her.
Only the man’s arm was visible in the frame, resting on the back of the van’s seat.
Wrapped around his thick wrist was a heavy, distinct timepiece.
It was Rose’s missing gold watch.
“That’s my husband’s watch,” Rose gasped, leaning closer. “The one Anthony stole from my room.”
Matteo turned his terrifying gaze onto his younger brother.
“Who is Victor Rossi?”
Anthony backed away, terrified.
“He’s a loan shark in Brooklyn. I owed him three million dollars. Lauren told me to give him the jewelry as collateral until the estate cleared.”
“You gave my father’s watch to a loan shark?”
Lauren lunged forward.
“I didn’t tell Victor to take Lily! I swear it! I just wanted the money!”
Matteo stared at her.
“My father’s letter says you married Victor five years ago.”
“We separated!” Lauren screamed. “He was abusive! He told me if I didn’t help him bankrupt your family, he would take my daughter!”
The room reeled.
She had played Anthony for a fool. She had used him to infiltrate the Russo family, to steal their wealth, to pay off her vicious husband.
But she had underestimated Victor’s cruelty.
Matteo handed the phone back to me.
“Clear the room,” Matteo ordered his security team.
The forty guests were quickly ushered out of the dining room. The heavy mahogany doors slammed shut.
Only Matteo, Rose, Anthony, Lauren, and I remained.
“Matteo, please,” Anthony begged, falling to his knees. “I’m a coward. I’m a thief. I’m a terrible son. But Lily is innocent. Please help me get my daughter back.”
Rose looked down at the son who had just tried to fake her death.
Her eyes filled with tears, but her voice was made of steel.
“Get up, Anthony. Russos do not beg on their knees.”
Anthony sobbed, slowly getting to his feet.
Matteo turned to Lauren.
“Where in Brooklyn does Victor operate?”
Lauren shook her head frantically.
“I don’t know! He moves every week. He operates out of abandoned warehouses near the docks. It’s impossible to track him.”
I looked at the photo on my phone again.
I zoomed in past the crying little girl. Past the gold watch.
In the dark background of the van’s window, a neon sign reflected in the glass.
Only three letters were visible.
A-R-C.
My heart pounded against my ribs.
“He’s not at the docks,” I said.
Matteo looked at me.
“What did you say, Maggie?”
“The neon reflection in the window,” I pointed. “A-R-C. That’s the broken sign for the Arcadia Bowling Alley. It’s in the basement of a run-down apartment complex in East New York.”
Matteo narrowed his eyes.
“How do you know that?”
I swallowed hard.
“Because I grew up two streets away from it. I know every back alley in that neighborhood.”
Matteo didn’t hesitate.
He pulled a sleek black handgun from his dinner jacket and checked the magazine.
“You’re coming with me, Maggie.”
Lauren screamed, “You can’t take a maid to fight Victor! He’ll kill you both!”
Matteo grabbed his coat.
“Keep Lauren tied to that chair,” Matteo ordered his guards. “If we don’t come back with the child by midnight, throw her out the front gate.”
As we rushed toward the garage, I grabbed my thick wool coat from the staff closet.
I reached into the pocket for my gloves.
My hand brushed against something strange.
It was a piece of folded paper.
I pulled it out as we got into Matteo’s armored SUV.
I unfolded it.
It was a child’s drawing in red crayon.
It depicted a monster with two faces holding a little girl.
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And written at the bottom in sloppy, six-year-old handwriting were three words:
Mommy helped him.
