Chapter 2 - THE SILVER ROSARY THAT BROKE THE MAFIA BOSS
“Helen... please don't tell her what happened last night.”
The sheer desperation in my husband’s voice echoed in the quiet music room. Vincent Romano, the man who had controlled Chicago’s underworld with an iron fist for decades, was begging me.
Brooke stepped back, her perfect features twisting into an ugly mask of confusion and rising anger. She looked from Vincent’s pale face to my calm one.
“What is she talking about, Vince?” Brooke demanded, her voice losing its smooth, practiced purr. “What happened last night?”
I kept my eyes on Vincent. Thirty years of marriage meant I knew every line on his face, every subtle shift in his posture. Right now, he wasn’t a mob boss. He was a terrified older man whose carefully constructed double life was collapsing onto the polished hardwood floor.
“He called me at two in the morning,” I said, my voice steady, though my hands trembled slightly by my sides. “He was locked in his home office. The security guards didn't know. You didn't know. But I knew, because he bypassed the secure lines and used the emergency protocol we set up when our children were born.”
“Helen, stop,” Vincent whispered. He reached a hand out toward me, a pathetic gesture I ignored.
Brooke crossed her arms, the red silk of her dress shifting. “He was working. He told me he had international calls.”
“He wasn't working, Brooke,” I said softly. I took a step closer to her, closing the distance between the wife and the mistress. “He was crying. Sobbing so hard he could barely breathe. He asked me to stay on the phone and play a specific melody—the one you just demanded I play—because it was the only thing that could stop his hands from shaking.”
Brooke scoffed, but uncertainty flickered in her eyes. She looked at Vincent. “Tell her she’s lying, baby. Tell her.”
Vincent closed his eyes. The silence in the room was heavier than any confession.
“Why was he crying?” Brooke asked, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. She hated this. She hated seeing the powerful man she thought she had conquered reduced to a frightened child.
“Because he found something on his desk,” I said. “Something that bypassed four layers of armed security.”
I reached into the pocket of my cardigan. My fingers brushed the cold, heavy metal before I pulled it out and tossed it onto the closed lid of the piano. It landed with a sharp clatter.
It was a broken silver rosary.
Brooke stared at it. “A necklace? He was crying over a cheap necklace?”
But Vincent’s knees literally buckled. He grabbed the edge of the piano to steady himself, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps.
“It’s not cheap,” I told her, my heart hammering against my ribs. “It belonged to his younger brother, Leo. The brother who disappeared twenty years ago. The brother Vincent swore to me he had buried.”
Brooke’s confident facade finally cracked. She understood the implications of the mob world well enough. If a dead man’s rosary appeared in a locked fortress, it meant a ghost was inside the house.
“You told me your family history was clean, Vince,” Brooke hissed, stepping away from him as if he were suddenly contagious. “You told my uncle that all the old blood was washed away.”
My uncle.
The words hung in the air, instantly shifting the gravity of the room. I looked at Brooke, really looked at her. The arrogant mistress wasn't just a mid-life crisis. She was a strategic alliance.
“Your uncle?” I asked.
Vincent finally looked up, his eyes bloodshot. “Helen, please leave the room. This isn't safe for you anymore.”
“It hasn't been safe for thirty years,” I replied, my voice chillingly calm. I walked over to the piano and picked up the silver rosary. As I lifted it, the small silver crucifix dangled in the light.
But as I pulled the rosary toward me, the beads snagged on the cuff of Brooke’s dress. She jerked her arm away, and her sleeve rode up.
There, fastened tightly around her wrist, was a delicate gold bracelet with three tiny diamond stars.
The breath was knocked completely out of my lungs.
I knew that bracelet. I had custom-ordered it for my daughter, Lily, on her eighteenth birthday. Lily, who had cut ties with us five years ago to protect her newborn son from Vincent’s world. Lily, who swore she would never take that bracelet off because it was the last pure piece of a mother’s love she had.
I grabbed Brooke’s wrist with a grip so fierce she shrieked.
“Where did you get this?” I demanded, the polite, quiet wife vanishing in a single heartbeat.
Brooke tried to yank her arm away, her eyes flashing with sudden, vicious malice. “Let go of me, you crazy old woman!”
“Where is my daughter?” I screamed, twisting her wrist upward so Vincent could see the gold chain.
Vincent froze, his face draining of whatever color remained. He stared at the three diamond stars, and a low, guttural sound escaped his throat.
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Brooke ripped her arm free and rubbed her wrist, a cruel, triumphant smile slowly spreading across her perfect face.
“Oh, Helen,” Brooke whispered, her voice dripping with poison. “Didn't Vincent tell you? Lily and your little grandson had a change of address last night.”
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