THE WOODEN ROSARY AND THE GHOST OF BOSTON

"The police?" one of the guests panicked.

"Not the police," Marco said grimly.

He looked at his head of security. "Lock the doors. Move the guests to the west wing. Now."

Chaos erupted. Guests fled toward the interior of the mansion.

But I didn't run. I stayed right beside Frank’s wheelchair. Elena pulled Leo behind the heavy mahogany bar in the corner of the ballroom.

Celeste stood near the window, triumphant. "My family is here, Marco. You wanted to know what's in the safe deposit box? It's the deed to your shipping company. I forged your signature three days ago. By tomorrow, the DeLuca empire belongs to the Morettis. And you'll be just another tragic headline."

Marco didn't look afraid. He unbuttoned his suit jacket and smoothly pulled a heavy black handgun from his shoulder holster.

He aimed it directly at Celeste’s chest.

"Call them off," Marco said.

Celeste didn't flinch. "Shoot me. They'll burn this house to the ground with your father and sister inside."

"Marco, no!" Elena screamed from the bar.

Marco’s finger tightened on the trigger.

"Don't do it, son," Frank said.

Marco kept the gun leveled. "She murdered Carlo. She stole my mother's jewelry. She poisoned you. She doesn't walk out of here."

"I said don't do it!"

The voice wasn't weak. It wasn't shaking.

It was a boom of thunder that silenced the entire room.

I gasped.

Frank DeLuca was standing up.

He didn't use the armrests. He didn't lean on me.

The eighty-two-year-old man who had supposedly suffered a debilitating stroke stood straight up, towering over his wheelchair, his posture perfect, his eyes burning with an ancient, terrifying fire.

Celeste’s jaw dropped. "What..."

Frank reached into his jacket pocket. He didn't pull out a handkerchief.

He pulled out a heavy metal magazine loaded with bullets.

"Your gun is empty, Marco," Frank said calmly, tossing the magazine onto the floor. It clattered against the marble. "I took it out of your safe this morning. Before my phone was stolen."

Marco lowered the empty gun, staring at his father in shock. "Dad? You can walk?"

"I've been able to walk for two months," Frank said. His right hand wasn't trembling anymore. "Ever since I stopped taking the pills the doctor gave me. Natalie, you noticed, didn't you?"

I swallowed hard, stepping forward. "I noticed his tea tasted bitter. I started throwing the pills away six weeks ago and giving him vitamins instead."

Marco looked at me, stunned.

"I needed her to think I was broken," Frank said, glaring at Celeste. "I needed her to get arrogant. So she would make a mistake. And tonight, she made it."

Outside, the sound of car doors slamming echoed through the glass. Dozens of men were gathering on the front steps.

"It doesn't matter!" Celeste screamed, pointing toward the windows. "You're outnumbered! My father's men are at the door! You have no bullets!"

Frank reached up to his lapel.

He touched the crooked white rose I had helped him pin earlier.

"I don't need bullets to kill the Morettis," Frank said softly. "I just needed a confession."

Frank pulled the white rose apart.

Hidden inside the petals was a small, blinking red light.

A high-grade, encrypted microphone.

"I haven't just been recording this room," Frank said to Celeste. "I've been broadcasting it. Live."