Chapter 6 - THE HEAVY WOODEN ROSARY
The kitchen was so quiet I could hear the rain tapping against the broken glass on the floor.
Isabella slowly let go of Marcus’s suit jacket. She turned around, her whole body trembling as if she were standing in freezing water.
She stared at the teenage boy in the doorway.
“Leo?” Isabella whispered. It was a fragile, broken sound, carrying fifteen years of stolen motherhood.
The boy stepped carefully into the kitchen, his eyes darting from the unconscious goons on the floor to Luca, whose hand was still clamped around Marcus’s throat.
Leo looked terrified, but he stood his ground.
He held out the heavy wooden rosary. The beads were worn smooth from years of prayer, and a small silver cross dangled from the end.
“A lady gave this to me when I was little,” Leo said, his voice cracking. He looked directly at my mother, Anya, who was weeping quietly against the counter. “She used to clean the Bellini estate. She told me it belonged to my real family. She told me to hold onto it.”
My mother covered her face with her hands, sobbing. “I’m so sorry, Leo. I couldn't tell you the truth. Marcus would have killed Nattie.”
Leo swallowed hard and turned his gaze to Isabella.
“Are you... are you really my mother?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
Isabella didn't answer with words. She fell to her knees, oblivious to the sharp shards of glass cutting into her skin. She reached out her arms, tears streaming down her face.
Leo hesitated for a fraction of a second before he dropped the rosary and ran to her.
They collapsed into each other, sobbing. Isabella buried her face in his neck, rocking him back and forth, kissing his hair, his cheeks, his shoulders.
“My baby,” Isabella cried out, a sound so raw and pure it made my chest ache. “My beautiful, beautiful boy. I never stopped loving you. I swear I never stopped.”
Luca watched them, tears blurring his fierce dark eyes.
Then, his grip on Marcus’s throat tightened, cutting off the older man’s air.
“You told me he was in Europe,” Luca growled, his voice vibrating with lethal intent.
Marcus struggled, his face turning a dangerous shade of purple. “I... I tried... he ran away...”
“I escaped,” Leo said, pulling back slightly from Isabella’s embrace to glare at Marcus. “I heard him on the phone tonight. He said he was going to force my real mother to sign away her company, and then he was going to lock me in a psychiatric facility so I could never tell the truth.”
Isabella gasped, pulling Leo tighter against her chest.
“You sick, twisted bastard,” Luca snarled. He pulled Marcus away from the wall and threw him violently onto the kitchen table. The cheap wood cracked under Marcus’s weight.
Luca grabbed a kitchen chair, dragged it over, and sat down right next to Marcus’s head.
“The game is over, Marcus,” Luca said quietly. “My sister has her son. Your fake bracelet has been exposed. Now, you are going to call your attorney, and you are going to void the transfer papers.”
Marcus coughed violently, holding his bruised throat. But even now, cornered and beaten, the arrogant smirk returned to his bloody lips.
“You think you’re so smart, Luca,” Marcus wheezed. “You think you’ve won because the maid figured out the bracelet was fake?”
Marcus slowly sat up on the broken table, wiping blood from his chin.
“I didn't need the bracelet to be real,” Marcus laughed darkly. “I just needed it to distract you long enough to get Isabella’s signature on that contract.”
Luca’s eyes narrowed. “A contract signed under extortion is completely void.”
“Is it?” Marcus sneered. He reached into his inner pocket and pulled out a crumpled, blue piece of paper. He tossed it onto the table.
It wasn't a legal document.
It was a bank deposit receipt.
Luca picked it up, his eyes scanning the numbers. His face went instantly pale.
“What is it, Luca?” Isabella asked, panic creeping back into her voice.
“It’s a wire transfer,” Luca said, his voice numb. “Fifty million dollars.”
Marcus chuckled, straightening his ruined tie. “You see, Luca, the moment Isabella signed those shares over to me at dinner tonight, I didn't keep them. I immediately sold them to a third party.”
The room spun. My stomach dropped.
“You sold half of Moretti Manufacturing?” Luca demanded, standing up. “To who?!”
“To the Russian syndicate,” Marcus smiled, showing his bloody teeth. “They’ve been trying to get a foothold in Chicago’s shipping ports for a decade. Your company controls those ports. I sold Isabella’s shares an hour ago.”
Luca looked like he had been physically struck.
If the Russians owned half the company, the Moretti family was dead. They would be forced out, or worse, assassinated.
“You destroyed my father’s legacy for fifty million dollars?” Luca whispered, his fists shaking.
“I destroyed it because Antonio humiliated me!” Marcus roared, suddenly losing his cool. “He thought he was better than me! And now, his precious empire belongs to the Bratva. And there is absolutely nothing you can do about it.”
Marcus stepped down from the table, adjusting his cuffs.
“Keep the bastard boy,” Marcus spat, looking at Leo with disgust. “I have my money. I’m leaving the country tonight. If you try to stop me, the Russians will slaughter your entire family.”
Marcus turned and walked toward the shattered door.
Nobody stopped him. Luca was paralyzed by the magnitude of the betrayal. The company was gone.
As Marcus stepped over the broken wood, something fluttered out of his torn pocket and landed on the floor.
He didn't notice. He kept walking, disappearing into the dark hallway.
I walked over and picked up the small piece of paper.
It was a train ticket.
“Mr. Moretti,” I said quietly.
Luca didn't look at me. He was staring blankly at the wall, the weight of the ruined empire crushing him.
“Luca,” I said louder, stepping into his line of sight.
He finally looked at me, his eyes filled with despair.
I held up the train ticket.
“Marcus isn't fleeing the country on a private jet,” I said, my heart beginning to race as I read the destination. “He’s taking the midnight train. To New York.”
Luca frowned. “Why would a billionaire take a public train?”
“Because he can’t use his passport,” a new voice echoed from the hallway.
We all jumped.
Standing in the doorway, holding his leather briefcase, was the Polish attorney, Aleksander Nowak.
“He can’t use his passport,” Aleksander repeated, stepping into the light, “because the FBI froze all of his bank accounts ten minutes ago.”
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Aleksander looked at me, a small, proud smile on his face.
“Your grandmother would be very proud of you, Natalie,” Aleksander said. “But we don't have much time. If we don't catch Marcus at the station before that train leaves, the Russians will finalize the hostile takeover.”
