Chapter 8 - The Rosary Made Of Black Glass
The rosary wasn't ordinary. The beads were made of smooth black glass, catching the dim platform lights.
I knew that rosary.
My father kept it hanging from the rearview mirror of his old Chevy truck. He told me it was a reminder to pray for the things he couldn't fix.
Leo was gripping it so tightly his knuckles were white.
"Isabella, put the gun down," Luca said slowly, stepping out completely into the open. "He's an innocent child. He has nothing to do with our father's sins."
"He has Moretti blood!" Isabella spat, her grip tightening on Leo's collar. "He's the heir. As long as he lives, the Volkovs won't back me to take the city. He's my only obstacle."
"I'll give it to you," Luca said, dropping his gun onto the concrete. It slid to a halt near Isabella's boots. "The business. The ports. The territory. Take it all. Just let him go."
Isabella smiled. It was a cold, victorious expression. "How noble. But I don't leave loose ends."
She cocked the hammer of the gun.
"Hey!" Tommy yelled, scrambling to his knees. His face was bruised, but his eyes were fierce. "You want a loose end? Look at the kid's hands!"
Isabella frowned, glancing down for a fraction of a second at Leo's hands.
In that moment, Leo opened his fists.
He didn't pray with the rosary.
He swung it.
The heavy glass cross at the end of the beads smashed directly into Isabella's wrist.
She cried out in pain, her grip loosening.
Tommy lunged, grabbing Leo by the waist and pulling him away just as Isabella fired blindly. The bullet ricocheted off the ceiling.
Before she could aim again, Luca crossed the distance.
He didn't use a weapon. He hit her with the sheer force of a man protecting his child, tackling her to the ground. The gun skittered across the platform, falling onto the tracks.
I ran to Tommy and Leo.
"Are you okay?" I pulled Tommy into a fierce hug.
"I'm fine," he groaned, holding his ribs.
I looked down at the boy. Leo was shaking, clutching the broken black glass rosary.
I knelt down in front of him. I didn't treat him like a mafia heir. I treated him like a scared six-year-old.
"That was a very brave thing you did," I said softly. "Where did you learn to swing like that?"
Leo looked up at me with large, dark eyes. "Pops taught me. He said heavy things are meant for throwing when monsters come."
Tears pricked my eyes. Pops. My father.
Luca stood up, pulling a zip-tie from his pocket—one Tommy must have dropped—and securing Isabella's hands behind her back. Security guards from the station were finally running down the stairs, alerted by the gunfire.
Luca turned and walked toward us.
He dropped to his knees in front of Leo. He didn't reach out to touch him, giving the boy space.
"Hello, Leo," Luca said, his voice thick with emotion.
Leo looked at him cautiously. "You're the man in the picture. The one Pops keeps in his lockbox."
Luca smiled, a genuine, tearful smile. "Yes. I'm Luca."
"Pops said you were my real dad," Leo said simply. "But he said I couldn't meet you until the bad lady was gone."
Luca glanced at Isabella, who was being hauled away by Luca's arriving men. "The bad lady is gone forever."
Leo held out his hand. Sitting in his palm was the broken cross from the rosary.
"Pops said if I ever met you," Leo said quietly, "I was supposed to give you this. He said there's a secret inside."
Luca carefully took the broken black glass cross.
Where it had cracked against Isabella's wrist, the glass had chipped away.
Beneath the black glass coating, shining under the platform lights, was solid gold.
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And wedged into a small hidden compartment within the cross, was a tiny, rolled-up piece of parchment.
TITLE: The Family Heirloom That Brought Us Home
