Chapter 2 - The Silver Rosary In Her Hand
"You promised her what?"
My voice didn't shake.
After thirty years as a mafia wife, you learn to ask the most devastating questions with absolute stillness.
Vincent looked at the floor. The broad shoulders that carried the weight of the Chicago waterfront seemed to collapse inward. He wouldn’t look at me.
But Bianca did.
She let go of Vincent’s arm, her red dress rustling in the quiet room. She walked toward the fireplace, running her hand along the antique mahogany mantle.
"He promised me this house, Eleanor," she said smoothly. "The deed. The estate. Everything your name is attached to."
I stared at her. "Vincent bought this house for me after my third miscarriage. It is solely in my name. He can't promise it to anyone."
Bianca smiled. It wasn't a cruel smile, which somehow made it worse. It was the smile of a woman holding a winning hand.
"He can," she whispered, "if you sign it over to the trust."
"What trust?" I asked, finally looking at my husband. "Vincent, what is she talking about?"
Vincent closed his eyes. "Ellie, please. Don't make me do this tonight."
"You brought her into my living room," I said, my voice hardening. "You told me to turn off the lamp. You do it tonight, Vincent. What trust?"
He took a ragged breath. "A trust for a child, Eleanor. A boy."
The air in the room vanished.
For thirty years, we had tried to have children. We had spent fortunes on doctors, endured agonizing losses, and finally, quietly, accepted our empty, echoing house.
I looked at Bianca's flat stomach. Then at her face.
"You have a son," I breathed.
"He's ten years old," Bianca said softly. "His name is Leo. He has Vincent's eyes."
Ten years.
My husband had been carrying a secret life for ten years, not eighteen months. The betrayal hit me so hard my knees actually trembled.
"Ten years," I whispered to Vincent. "You let me cry on your shoulder on Mother's Day for ten years, knowing you had a son?"
Vincent stepped forward, his face pale. "Ellie, it's not what you think. I swear to God."
"Don't swear to God in this house," I snapped.
Bianca sighed, reaching into her small designer clutch. "I told you she'd be hysterical, Vincent. We don't have time for this."
She pulled something out of her purse and tossed it onto the coffee table.
It landed with a heavy, metallic clink.
I looked down.
My breath caught in my throat.
It was a silver rosary. The beads were worn smooth from decades of prayer. The crucifix was slightly bent at the bottom.
It was my mother’s rosary.
She had given it to me on her deathbed. I had kept it in the locked cedar chest at the foot of our bed for twenty years.
"Where did you get that?" I asked, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.
Bianca looked at me. "Vincent gave it to Leo. For his first communion. It’s a family heirloom, isn't it? It belongs with the true heir of this family."
I looked at Vincent. The man who had held my hand while we buried my mother.
"You gave my mother's rosary to your bastard son?"
Vincent’s eyes widened in sheer panic. "Ellie, no! I never gave that to anyone! I haven't opened that cedar chest in ten years!"
Bianca’s smile faltered.
"What do you mean?" Bianca snapped at Vincent. "You told my father you took it from her room."
Vincent slowly turned toward Bianca, the guilt in his eyes entirely replaced by a cold, lethal realization.
"I never told your father that," Vincent said quietly. "Because nobody knows about the cedar chest except Eleanor and me."
May you like
He looked back at the rosary on the table, then up at his mistress.
"Bianca," my husband whispered. "How did your father get the key to my bedroom?"
