Chapter 7 - THE HEIRLOOM ROSARY
The audio file ended.
I stared at the laptop screen, my reality completely fracturing.
“He’s faking it?” I whispered, backing away. “I’ve been spoon-feeding him for a year. I’ve been working seventy-hour weeks to pay for his physical therapy.”
Luca closed the laptop slowly.
He didn’t look angry. He looked profoundly sad.
“Emma,” Luca said softly. “Your father knew Julian was finally making a move to take over the family. If Julian thought your father was healthy, he would have tortured him for the location of the trust documents.”
“So he lied to me?” I cried, tears spilling over my cheeks. “He let me think he was dying?”
“He kept you safe,” Arthur Bell interjected quietly.
The old clockmaker walked over, crunching glass under his shoes.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a beautifully carved wooden rosary.
“Your father asked me to hold onto this,” Arthur said, holding it out to me. “He said you made it for him when you were seven years old. He never went a day without carrying it. Until the day he had his 'stroke.'”
I took the rosary. The beads were worn smooth from years of anxious prayer.
“Where is he?” I demanded, looking at Luca. “If he’s awake, I want to see him.”
“He’s at the Oakwood Care Facility,” Luca said. “But Julian’s men are likely already on their way there. Julian sent a text before the fight broke out.”
Panic seized my chest. “We have to go. Now.”
Luca nodded. “Marco, secure Julian in the vault. Call the FBI director directly. Give him everything.”
Luca grabbed a fresh jacket, concealing his bleeding arm.
We rushed out to his armored SUV.
The drive to the nursing home was a blur of flashing streetlights and screaming sirens.
I sat in the back, clutching my father’s rosary so tightly it left imprints on my palm.
When we pulled up to the quiet, suburban care facility, the front doors were shattered.
“Stay behind me,” Luca ordered, drawing his backup weapon.
We moved quickly down the sterile, linoleum hallways.
Nurses were cowering behind the reception desk.
“Room 412,” I whispered, pointing down the east wing.
We turned the corner.
Two men in dark suits were standing outside my father’s door.
Before Luca could raise his gun, the door swung open.
An older man stepped out.
He was wearing a simple gray tracksuit. He wasn’t in a wheelchair. He wasn’t slurring his words.
He was holding a heavy oxygen tank in his hands like a baseball bat.
With one swift, brutal swing, he leveled the first man. The second man reached for his gun, but my father kicked his knee in, sending him crashing to the floor.
My father dropped the oxygen tank, breathing heavily.
He looked up and saw me standing at the end of the hall.
“Dad?” I choked out.
He didn’t look like a frail stroke victim. He looked exactly like the man Michael Moretti had trusted with his empire.
He smiled, a sad, exhausted smile.
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“Hi, sweetheart,” he said.
Then, a laser sight suddenly appeared squarely on my father’s chest.
