Chapter 3 - THE SILVER POCKET WATCH
Vincent stared at the child’s drawing, his breathing entirely stopped.
“St. Jude’s,” he whispered, the paper trembling in his massive hands. “That orphanage was torn down fifteen years ago. It’s just an abandoned lot now.”
“Why would your daughter draw a place that doesn't exist anymore?” I asked, keeping my voice low.
“She didn't,” Vincent replied, his eyes darkening with a terrifying realization. “Sofia has never heard of St. Jude’s. She didn't draw this.”
I looked closer at the paper. The crayon strokes were heavy, frantic. But in the bottom right corner, there was a small detail I had missed. A perfectly drawn sequence of three hand shapes.
I recognized them instantly. They were American Sign Language letters.
M. R. C.
My heart skipped a beat. “Mr. DeLuca… someone drew ASL letters on this page. M, R, and C.”
Vincent snatched the paper back, staring at the letters. “Marco.”
“Who is Marco?”
Vincent looked at me, a complicated mixture of grief and rage crossing his face. “My younger brother. He was supposed to take over the family business. But five years ago, he betrayed us. He sold out our father’s operations to a rival family. He was exiled. If he ever stepped foot in Chicago again, my men had orders to shoot him on sight.”
He looked down at the smashed silver watch.
“This was his watch,” Vincent said softly. “Our father gave it to him when he turned eighteen. The glass was shattered the night we threw him out.”
I tried to piece it together. “So your exiled brother snuck past your security, blackmailed your housekeeper, and kidnapped your daughter to get revenge?”
“It doesn't make sense,” Vincent muttered, pacing the damp stone floor of the greenhouse. “Marco is ruthless, yes. But he loved Sofia. He was the one who bought her that pink hair ribbon. Why would he take her to an abandoned orphanage?”
Before he could answer his own question, the greenhouse door creaked open.
Isabella wheeled herself into the humid room. Her breathing was labored, her knuckles white as she gripped the wheels of her chair.
She rolled directly up to Vincent and held out her trembling hand. She wanted the drawing.
Vincent hesitated, then placed it in her palm.
Isabella stared at the drawing of the iron gates. She didn't cry. Instead, a profound, terrifying calm washed over her aged face.
She looked up at me and began to sign, her movements sharp and deliberate.
He didn't take her to hurt her.
I translated aloud for Vincent.
Isabella continued. He took her to hide her. The wolves are already inside the house.
Vincent stepped closer to his mother, crouching down to her eye level. “What wolves, Ma? What are you talking about?”
Isabella pointed toward the main house. Through the glass walls of the greenhouse, we could see the caterers setting up tables on the patio. Guests in expensive suits and summer dresses were beginning to arrive for the birthday luncheon.
She tapped her wrist, right where a watch would sit. Then she signed a single, clear word.
Carmine.
Vincent froze. “Carmine? My underboss?”
Isabella nodded violently. She made a motion like sliding a knife across her throat, then pointed directly at the pink ribbon still clutched in Vincent’s left hand.
“She’s saying Carmine is the one who wants to hurt Sofia,” I whispered, a cold sweat breaking out on the back of my neck.
“That is impossible,” Vincent said, though his voice lacked conviction. “Carmine has been my right hand for five years. He practically raised Marco and me. He’s the one who discovered Marco’s betrayal.”
Isabella let out a sharp, guttural sound—the first noise I had heard her make. It was a sound of pure disgust.
She grabbed the silver pocket watch from Vincent’s hand. She turned it over, pressing her thumb against the tarnished back casing.
With a soft click, a hidden compartment in the back of the watch popped open.
Isabella pulled out a tiny, perfectly folded photograph and handed it to her son.
Vincent unfolded it. I leaned over his shoulder.
It was a picture taken five years ago. It showed Marco handing a briefcase to a man in the shadows. The rival boss. The exact meeting that had proven Marco’s treason.
But this photograph was uncropped. The original evidence Vincent had seen must have been zoomed in.
Because in this wider version of the picture, standing behind the rival boss, orchestrating the entire exchange, was Carmine.
Marco hadn't betrayed the family. Carmine had. And he had framed Marco to get him out of the way.
“My god,” Vincent breathed, the color draining from his face.
A heavy knock on the greenhouse glass made us all jump.
May you like
Standing on the other side of the door, wearing an expensive navy suit and a warm, grandfatherly smile, was Carmine.
“Vincent!” Carmine called out, pushing the glass door open. “The guests are asking for you, my boy. And my men are very eager to see the birthday girl.”
