Chapter 3 - THE SILVER ROSARY
I didn't go back to the dining room.
I stood in the center of Gabriel’s study, staring at the crayon drawing. Daddy and Leo.
My fingers traced the waxy red letters. For three years, I had gone to countless fertility clinics. I had taken injections that made me sick, cried in sterile white bathrooms, and apologized to Gabriel for failing him.
“It’s fine, Claire,” he used to say, kissing my forehead. “We have time. It’s just us.”
A lie. Seven years of my life, built on a mountain of secrets.
I tucked the drawing and the demolition permit into my purse. I couldn't tell Antonella yet. The shock of her grandson selling her home to the Romanos would break her heart; the shock of a secret great-grandson might break her spirit.
I slipped out the back door of the estate. The Chicago night was freezing, the wind biting through my thin silk blouse. I didn't care.
I got into my car and put the key in the ignition.
I didn't know who "Leo" was, but I knew exactly where Isabella Romano lived.
It was a penthouse in the Gold Coast, paid for by the Moretti family accounts—an expense I had discovered six months ago when reviewing the quarterly ledgers. When I confronted Gabriel, he had claimed it was a "hush-money asset" for a business associate.
I drove like a woman possessed. The city lights blurred into streaks of angry yellow and red.
When I reached her building, I bypassed the concierge, slipping into the elevator behind a food delivery driver. I pressed the button for the penthouse.
My heart pounded against my ribs. I didn't know what I was going to do. Scream? Beg? Demand answers?
The elevator chimed. The doors slid open to a private foyer.
I marched up to Isabella’s door and hammered my fist against the heavy wood.
“Isabella! Open this door!”
Silence.
I knocked harder. “I know you’re in there. You left Sunday dinner early, remember?”
The lock clicked. The door opened a few inches, held by a brass chain.
Isabella stood there. She had changed out of the red silk dress and was wearing a plain gray sweatshirt. Her makeup was gone, her face pale and drawn. She looked ten years older than the smug mistress who had held my husband’s hand an hour ago.
“Claire,” she whispered. Her voice trembled. “You shouldn't be here.”
“Open the door.”
“I can’t. If Elias finds out—”
“I don't care about your father,” I snapped, pushing my weight against the wood. “Gabriel dropped something. I think it belongs to you.”
I pulled the crayon drawing from my purse and held it up to the crack.
Isabella’s breath hitched. She stared at the paper, her eyes widening in pure terror.
“Where did you get that?”
“From my husband's coat. Along with the demolition permits for Antonella’s house.”
She unhooked the chain and pulled me inside, slamming the door behind me and locking it twice.
The penthouse was beautiful, but it felt cold, empty. There were no personal touches. No photos. No signs of a child living here.
“Where is he?” I demanded, holding up the drawing. “Where is Leo? Is he your son?”
Isabella backed away from me, wrapping her arms around herself.
“No,” she said, her voice cracking. “He’s not my son.”
“Then whose—”
“He’s Gabriel’s.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. I stumbled back, catching myself on the edge of a marble console table.
“Gabriel’s,” I repeated.
“He had him before he married you. With a woman in Naples. She died.” Isabella wouldn't look at me. “Leo is six years old.”
Six. Gabriel had a child a year before we were married.
“Why are you involved?” I asked, my voice deadly quiet. “If he’s Gabriel’s son, why did you have the drawing? Why did you tell your father about Antonella’s house?”
Isabella finally looked up. Tears spilled over her eyelashes.
“Because I didn't tell my father. My father is the one forcing the sale.”
I frowned. “Elias?”
“My father found out about Leo three months ago. He kidnapped him, Claire.”
The room spun.
Answer One: Isabella wasn't just a mistress. She was a warden. The affair was a public cover to explain why the rival families were suddenly in constant contact without starting a war.
Open Two: Where was Elias keeping the boy? And why did Isabella seem just as trapped as Gabriel?
“Elias is holding Leo hostage,” Isabella cried, her facade completely shattering. “He told Gabriel that if he didn't sign over the Moretti estate and take me as his public mistress to humiliate your family, he would kill the boy.”
“Then why are you playing along?” I asked, disgusted. “You humiliated me tonight. You asked Antonella to kick me out.”
“Because Elias’s men were watching us!” she screamed. “If I don't play the cruel mistress perfectly, my father thinks Gabriel isn't fully broken. I begged you to leave because if you stay close to Gabriel, my father will target you next!”
I stared at her. Everything I believed about my marriage, about my husband’s betrayal, was twisting into something unrecognizable. Gabriel hadn't stopped loving me. He had pushed me away to keep me out of Elias’s crosshairs.
“I’m sorry, Claire,” Isabella sobbed. “I don't want to be here. I hate my father. I’ve been trying to find out where he’s keeping Leo, but I can't.”
I looked down at the console table beneath my hands.
Lying next to a stack of mail was a delicate silver rosary.
I froze.
The beads were tarnished, the cross missing a tiny piece of silver at the bottom right edge.
I would know that rosary anywhere. It had belonged to my mother. I had placed it in her hands at her funeral ten years ago.
“Where did you get this?” I whispered, picking it up.
Isabella wiped her eyes, confused. “My father gave it to me yesterday. He said he took it from the man who runs the orphanage where they're holding Leo.”
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My blood ran cold.
The man who ran that orphanage wasn't a stranger. He was my uncle.
