Chapter 2 - THE SILVER ROSARY
The silence in the dining room was so absolute I could hear the rain hitting the tall glass windows.
Thirty wealthy guests sat completely motionless, their wine glasses suspended in mid-air.
Dominic DeLuca stared at the woman he was supposed to marry in three weeks.
“My mother,” Dominic said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, terrifying whisper, “has not spoken a coherent sentence in six months.”
Victoria’s chin trembled perfectly. It was a practiced, beautiful gesture.
“She had a lucid day yesterday, Dominic. You were at the docks. I sat with her for hours. She looked at my hand, started crying, and told me that a DeLuca bride needs security, not just diamonds. She begged me to sell it and put the money in a private account. For our future.”
I felt a cold knot form in my stomach.
It was a brilliant lie.
Dominic’s mother, Rosa, suffered from vascular dementia. Some days she didn't know her own son. Other days, she remembered everything with sharp, heartbreaking clarity. By claiming Rosa had a lucid episode, Victoria had created a story that couldn't be definitively proven false.
Because Rosa might not remember saying it.
Dominic didn't look at his guests. He didn't look at me.
He stared at the small, imitation diamond on Victoria’s finger.
“Marco,” Dominic said.
From the shadows of the hallway, a massive man in a tailored suit stepped forward. Marco was Dominic’s head of security. He had scars on his neck and eyes that never stopped moving.
“Clear the room,” Dominic ordered.
Within three minutes, the dining room was empty. The guests practically ran to the coat check.
Victoria stood by the table, her face flushed. “Dominic, you are embarrassing me over a misunderstanding.”
“Go to your room, Victoria.”
“Excuse me?”
“Go to your room. Do not pack. Do not make any phone calls. Just wait.”
She opened her mouth to argue, saw the absolute finality in his eyes, and turned on her heel. Her red silk gown rustled aggressively as she marched up the grand staircase.
Dominic finally turned to me.
I was still standing by the table, my hands clasped tightly in front of my apron.
“Hannah.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You have a seven-year-old son living in my staff quarters.”
My heart stopped. “Leo. Yes, sir. We had an agreement when I was hired.”
“I know about the agreement,” Dominic said smoothly. “I also know that single mothers do not risk their employment lightly. Which means you are either incredibly brave, or you are working with Victoria to extort me.”
I looked him dead in the eye.
“If I wanted to extort you, Mr. DeLuca, I wouldn't have stopped you from giving her the fake necklace in front of thirty witnesses. I would have waited until you were married.”
A tiny muscle flickered in his jaw. It might have been amusement. It might have been anger.
“Go check on my mother,” he said quietly. “Do not speak to anyone else.”
I hurried up the back staircase, my pulse hammering in my ears.
Rosa DeLuca’s suite was at the end of the east wing. It smelled of lavender and old paper. When I gently pushed the door open, the room was dark except for a single reading lamp.
Rosa was sitting in her velvet armchair by the window.
She was sixty-eight, frail, with silver hair pinned neatly back. She was staring out at the rain.
“Mrs. DeLuca?” I whispered.
She didn't turn around. “The house is very quiet, Hannah. Did my son finally send that awful woman away?”
My breath caught. Her voice was perfectly clear. There was no confusion. No fog.
“Not yet, ma'am.” I stepped closer. “Mrs. DeLuca, Victoria told Dominic you ordered her to sell her engagement ring yesterday.”
Rosa slowly turned her head. Her dark eyes, so much like Dominic’s, locked onto mine.
“I haven't spoken to Victoria in three weeks,” Rosa said softly.
“Then why would she use you as an excuse?”
Rosa reached into the pocket of her wool cardigan. Her trembling fingers pulled out a heavy, tarnished silver rosary.
She pressed it into my hand.
“Because, my dear, she thinks I don't remember what I saw.”
I looked at the rosary. The beads were cold. But the silver cross at the bottom was bent, as if it had been crushed under a heavy boot.
“What did you see?” I asked.
Rosa leaned forward, her grip on my wrist surprisingly strong.
“Victoria didn't sell that ring for money, Hannah. She traded it. To a man who came through the garden gates three nights ago.”
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I stared at her. “The jeweler?”
“He wasn't a jeweler,” Rosa whispered, her eyes filling with a sudden, stark terror. “I know him. He’s the man who murdered my husband.”
