Chapter 5 - THE ROSARY
The drive to the Bellini estate took exactly twenty-two minutes.
Nobody spoke in the back of the armored SUV. Luca sat in the center, perfectly still, his hand resting on the leather journal. Lauren sat to his right, her hands clenched tightly in her lap, staring out at the rain-slicked Chicago streets.
Vanessa sat on Luca’s left. Her wrists were zip-tied together.
When the heavy iron gates of the Bellini mansion parted, the tires crunched over the gravel driveway. The massive stone house loomed in the dark, looking more like a fortress than a home.
"Take us to the greenhouse," Luca ordered the driver.
Vanessa flinched. "You have no right to do this, Luca. This is private property."
"You lost the right to privacy the moment you brought a gun into my home and tried to steal a child," Luca replied smoothly.
The SUV stopped near the glass conservatory at the back of the estate. The rain hammered against the roof.
Daniel opened the door. Luca stepped out first, then helped Lauren down, mindful of her injured knee. Daniel hauled Vanessa out last, ignoring her protests.
They walked into the humid, overgrown greenhouse. The smell of damp earth and rotting orchids filled the air.
"Where is it?" Luca asked Vanessa.
She pressed her lips together, turning her head away.
Luca didn't press her. He opened her father’s journal again, scanning the final page.
‘The roots of the white oleander go deep. Deeper than the sins they cover.’
"Find the white oleander," Luca commanded Daniel.
Within minutes, Daniel pushed aside a tangle of heavy green vines in the far corner of the greenhouse. Beneath a massive, blooming oleander bush was a heavy iron grate set into the stone floor.
Lauren’s heart hammered so hard she felt dizzy. "Is that..."
"Open it," Luca said.
Daniel grabbed the iron ring and pulled. With a loud, grinding screech, the grate lifted, revealing a dark, narrow stone staircase leading underground.
A heavy, musty smell wafted up.
Luca pulled a small flashlight from his coat. "Daniel, stay up here with Vanessa. If she moves, shoot her."
"Understood, boss."
Luca looked at Lauren. "You don't have to come down."
"I need to know," Lauren whispered. Her voice was surprisingly steady.
Luca nodded. He led the way down the steps. The air grew colder with every tier. At the bottom, they reached a thick wooden door secured by a rusted padlock.
Luca didn't hesitate. He pulled his own sidearm from his shoulder holster, aimed, and blew the lock apart.
The sound was deafening in the confined space. He kicked the door open.
Inside was a small, concrete room. It wasn't a dungeon, but it was unmistakably a cell. A rusted iron bed frame sat in the corner. A small sink dripped water.
And on the wall, scratched into the concrete, were hundreds of tally marks.
Lauren let out a choked sob. She stepped into the room, her trembling hands touching the cold walls.
"She was here," Lauren cried. "My mother was here."
Luca moved the flashlight beam across the room. It landed on a small wooden table. On it sat a tin cup, a dusty candle, and something small and black.
Luca walked over and picked it up.
It was a rosary.
But not just any rosary. It was carved from black onyx, with a distinctive silver crucifix missing its left arm.
Luca stared at the object, his blood turning to ice.
He knew this rosary. He had seen it every Sunday of his childhood. It had belonged to his own father, Vincenzo Moretti.
"Lauren," Luca said, his voice strangely hollow.
She turned, tears streaming down her face.
Luca held up the broken rosary. "Did your mother own this?"
Lauren frowned, wiping her eyes. "No. My mother wasn't Catholic. She never owned a rosary."
Luca’s grip on the beads tightened until his knuckles turned white.
Vanessa’s father hadn't acted alone twenty years ago. The Bellinis didn't have the power to hide a pregnant woman without the mob noticing. They would have needed permission. They would have needed help.
From the Moretti family.
"My father," Luca breathed, the horrific realization washing over him. "My father helped them."
Before Luca could process the betrayal of his own bloodline, a soft, scraping sound came from the shadows behind the rusted bed.
Someone was still in the room.
Luca instantly raised his gun, the flashlight beam cutting through the darkness.
"Step out," Luca commanded.
A figure slowly emerged from the gloom. It wasn't Evelyn Mitchell.
It was a young man, no older than nineteen. He was thin, pale, and wearing dirty, oversized clothes. He held his hands up, squinting against the harsh light.
And around his neck, he wore a child’s drawing on a string—a drawing of a young woman with blonde hair.
Lauren gasped, taking a step back.
The boy looked exactly like Lauren’s mother.
But when he spoke, the words shattered everything they thought they knew.
"Are you the ones they sent to kill me?" the boy asked, his voice raw. "Because my father said the Morettis always finish their loose ends."
Luca lowered his gun slightly. "Who is your father?"
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The boy looked straight at Luca, his dark eyes burning with decades of buried secrets.
"Vincenzo Moretti."
