Chapter 2 - THE SILVER ROSARY
The silence in the dining room was so absolute I could hear the fire consuming my mother’s photograph.
The edges of the paper curled, turning black, taking away the only physical memory I had of the woman who raised me. But I didn’t look at the fireplace anymore. I couldn’t.
I was looking at Adrian Moretti.
The man who controlled half the city’s real estate and most of its underground power. The man who had spent three years mourning a wife everyone believed died in a tragic accident on a rain-slicked highway.
Adrian didn’t yell. He didn’t reach for a weapon. He didn’t threaten me.
Instead, he did something much more terrifying.
He became completely still.
His dark eyes locked onto mine, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop by ten degrees.
“Everyone out,” Adrian said.
His voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.
Around the long black marble table, twenty-four wealthy, powerful guests instantly stood up. They didn’t finish their wine. They didn’t grab their expensive coats. They simply moved toward the arched mahogany doors like the air in the room had just turned toxic.
Victoria Bellini grabbed Adrian’s arm. Her diamond rings flashed in the firelight.
“Adrian, darling,” she laughed, a nervous, high-pitched sound. “You aren’t seriously going to listen to the maid? She’s lying. She’s trying to ruin our dinner because she’s jealous of her place in this house.”
Adrian didn’t look at her. He just stared at me.
“Victoria,” he said softly. “If you don’t remove your hand from my arm, I will have my security escort you to your car.”
Victoria gasped, pulling her hand back as if she had been burned. Her face flushed a deep, ugly red, but she didn’t say another word. She stepped back, her eyes promising me absolute destruction.
Within thirty seconds, the dining room was empty, save for Adrian, Victoria, Lily, and me.
Lily was still holding onto the edge of my apron, her small fingers trembling. I gently placed my hand over hers, squeezing softly to let her know I wasn't going anywhere.
Adrian finally moved. He walked slowly around the edge of the long marble table, his footsteps echoing on the hardwood floor, until he was standing less than two feet away from me.
He smelled of expensive bourbon and something cold, like the winter wind outside.
“My wife died three years ago,” Adrian said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. “You started working here two years ago. Your background check said you were a waitress at a diner on the South Side. So, Emily… you are going to tell me exactly how you spoke to Isabella the night before she died. And if I even suspect you are lying, you will never leave this estate.”
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.
“I didn’t know who she was,” I said, my voice shaking. I forced myself to swallow, to find my courage. “Three years ago, my mother was dying in a hospice facility across town. It was pancreatic cancer. I was working double shifts at the diner just to pay for her morphine.”
Victoria rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. Spare us the sob story.”
“Quiet,” Adrian snapped, never taking his eyes off me. “Continue.”
“I was sitting by my mother’s bed,” I said, the memory flooding back, sharp and painful. “It was raining. A woman walked into the room. She was wearing a trench coat, soaking wet, shivering. She looked terrified. She sat on the edge of my mother’s bed and held her hand.”
Adrian’s jaw tightened. “Why would Isabella visit your mother?”
“Because my mother was Rosa,” I answered softly. “Before she got sick… before I was even born… she was Isabella’s nanny. She raised your wife, Mr. Moretti.”
Adrian’s eyes widened slightly. The fierce, untouchable Mafia boss fractured for just a second, revealing the grieving husband underneath. He knew about Rosa. Isabella must have told him about the woman who actually loved her when her own wealthy parents ignored her.
“Isabella stayed for an hour,” I continued, my voice gaining strength. “She told my mother she was in trouble. She said she was trapped. She handed my mother that photograph—the one Victoria just burned—because Isabella had kept it for years to remember her by.”
“Lies,” Victoria hissed from the corner. “She’s making this up, Adrian! Isabella was perfectly happy!”
“She was terrified,” I fired back, finally looking at Victoria. “She was shaking so badly she could barely speak. And before she left, she turned to me. She didn’t know my name, but she knew I was Rosa’s daughter. She begged me to keep the photo safe.”
I looked back at Adrian.
“But that wasn’t the only thing she gave me.”
Adrian stepped closer, his chest almost brushing my shoulder. “What else?”
I reached into the deep pocket of my black housekeeper’s dress. My fingers wrapped around the heavy object I had carried every single day since I started working in this house.
I pulled it out and held it up in the dim light of the chandelier.
It was a silver rosary.
The beads were made of dark, polished onyx, and the crucifix was heavy, antique silver. It looked ancient, beautiful, and utterly out of place in my rough, calloused hands.
Adrian stared at it. His brow furrowed in deep confusion.
“Isabella gave you this?” he asked, his voice losing its dangerous edge, replaced by genuine bewilderment.
“Yes,” I said.
Adrian slowly reached out and took the rosary from my hand. He ran his thumb over the silver cross, staring at it as if it were a foreign object.
“Emily,” Adrian said quietly. “My wife was not Catholic. She never set foot inside a church. She didn’t own a rosary.”
The reversal hung in the air, heavy and suffocating.
Victoria let out a sharp, triumphant laugh. “You see? She’s a liar! She probably stole that from someone else and thought she could use it to manipulate you, Adrian. Have her arrested.”
I didn’t flinch. I didn’t look at Victoria. I kept my eyes locked entirely on Adrian.
Because I knew exactly what I held.
“I know it wasn’t hers, Mr. Moretti,” I said, my voice steady, ringing clearly through the massive dining room.
Adrian looked up from the cross, his dark eyes searching my face. “Then why did she give it to you?”
I took a deep breath, preparing to cross a line I could never, ever step back from.
“Because she didn’t give it to me as a gift,” I said, my voice dropping to a whisper that only he and Lily could hear. “She gave it to me as evidence.”
Adrian froze. “Evidence of what?”
“She said she found it in the driveway that morning,” I replied. “Underneath her car. Right next to a puddle of brake fluid.”
Adrian’s face drained of color.
The official police report had stated Isabella lost control on a wet road. A tragic accident. But if someone had tampered with the brakes, and they had dropped this rosary while doing it…
It was murder.
“And I know whose it is,” I whispered.
I reached forward, gently taking the heavy silver crucifix from Adrian’s palm. With my thumbnail, I pressed a tiny, almost invisible latch on the back of the cross.
The back of the crucifix popped open. It was a locket.
I handed it back to Adrian.
He looked down at the tiny, faded photograph hidden inside the silver cross.
His breath hitched. The terrifying Mafia boss let out a sound that was half gasp, half sob.
May you like
He slowly raised his head, and his eyes bypassed me entirely, locking onto the woman standing by the fireplace.
“Victoria,” Adrian said, his voice entirely devoid of humanity. “Why is there a picture of your father inside this cross?”
