THE WOODEN ROSARY AND THE GHOST OF BOSTON

The heavy oak doors of the ballroom opened.

Everyone turned.

Elena DeLuca stood in the threshold.

She was thirty-two, but she looked older. She wore a simple gray wool coat. Her dark hair was pulled back. She had the same sharp, undeniable cheekbones as Marco, but her eyes carried a weight that didn't belong in a room full of crystal and champagne.

Beside her stood a little boy.

He had dark, messy curls. He was wearing a slightly oversized sweater and holding tightly to Elena’s hand.

But in his other hand, he clutched something else.

A heavy, dark wooden rosary.

Marco didn’t look at his sister first. He looked at the boy. Then, his eyes locked onto the rosary.

The blood drained from Marco’s face.

“Elena,” Marco whispered.

It was the first time all night his voice had shaken.

Elena stepped into the ballroom. She didn’t look at the wealthy donors, the politicians, or the doctors. She looked straight at Marco.

“His name is Leo,” Elena said. Her voice was steady, but loud enough to carry. “He turns seven next month.”

Marco took a slow step forward. “That rosary.”

“It belonged to his father.”

“Carlo is his father.”

Elena nodded once.

A murmur ripped through the older guests. I had heard the kitchen staff whisper about Carlo. He had been Marco’s second-in-command. His best friend. Seven years ago, Carlo was accused of stealing from the family and selling secrets to the Moretti syndicate.

Marco had banished him. Two days later, Elena had vanished.

“Carlo is a traitor,” Marco said, his jaw tightening. “You brought his son here?”

“Carlo wasn’t a traitor,” Elena said. “He took the blame because he knew if you found out who really stole the money, it would break your heart.”

Marco stopped. “What are you talking about?”

“Carlo has been dead for three years, Marco.”

The room went dead silent.

Marco flinched. The anger in his eyes shattered, replaced instantly by profound grief. “Dead?”

“He was killed in Boston,” Elena said. Her eyes flicked toward Celeste. “Wasn't he, Celeste?”

Celeste took a step back, her back hitting the edge of a dining table. “I don’t know what she’s talking about. Marco, she’s lying. She’s trying to ruin us.”

“I’m not talking to you,” Elena snapped. She let go of Leo’s hand and reached into her coat pocket.

She pulled out a small, folded piece of paper. It looked like a receipt.

“When the police found Carlo in the alley, his pockets were empty,” Elena said, walking closer to Marco. “Except for his coat lining. He had torn a hole in it and shoved this inside.”

She handed it to Marco.

Marco unfolded it. I could see the blue ink from where I stood. It was an Amtrak train ticket.

“A ticket to Chicago,” Marco said, reading it. “He was coming back?”

“Look at the billing name at the bottom,” Elena said softly.

Marco lowered his eyes.

His face hardened into stone.

He slowly looked up and turned his head toward his fiancée.

“You bought this ticket, Celeste,” Marco said.

Celeste shook her head frantically. “No! It’s a forgery! She’s trying to frame me!”

“Why would my dead best friend have a train ticket purchased with your private credit card three years ago?” Marco asked, his voice dropping to a terrifying calm.

“I didn't buy it!” Celeste cried.

Elena didn't yell. She just looked at her brother.

“Open the rosary, Marco,” Elena said. “The crucifix. Slide the wood back.”

Marco looked down at the little boy. Leo looked up at him, then gently held out the wooden beads.

Marco took the crucifix. He pressed his thumb against the back of the cross and slid the wood upward.

A tiny, hidden compartment was revealed.