Chapter 3 – THE BLOODSTAINED ROSARY

The heavy thud of the rosary against the marble echoed like a gunshot.

Everyone stared at the silver beads gleaming under the chandelier light. The dark, rusted stains on the cross were unmistakable.

Evelyn pressed her trembling hand against her mouth.

“That’s Vincenzo’s,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “He never took it off. The police told us it was lost in the crash.”

Lorenzo walked slowly toward the coat rack. He didn’t look at Cassandra. He didn’t look at the terrified guests.

He knelt on the floor and picked up the rosary.

He held it up to the light, inspecting the intricate silver links.

“You kept a bloody trophy,” Lorenzo said, his voice so calm it sent shivers down my spine. “Your family murdered my uncle, stole his rosary, and then twenty-five years later, you infiltrated my home to marry me.”

Cassandra was sobbing now, sliding down the mahogany door.

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this!” she cried, her perfect makeup ruined. “My father made me do it, Lorenzo! The Bellamy family is broke. He said if I married you, I could transfer the Moretti assets and save us!”

Lorenzo stood up.

“And stealing my grandmother’s bracelet? Framing my maid?”

“I needed cash!” she shrieked. “My father cut off my credit cards until the wedding! I was desperate!”

Lorenzo looked at her with utter disgust.

“You are a parasite,” he said.

He signaled to his security guards. “Take her to the basement office. Call the police. Have them send a detective who answers to me.”

Two massive men grabbed Cassandra by the arms and dragged her out of the dining room. Her screams faded down the hallway.

The guests were frozen, unsure if they were allowed to breathe.

Lorenzo turned to the room.

“The engagement dinner is over,” he announced. “My guards will escort you to your cars.”

Within ten minutes, the grand dining room was completely empty, save for Lorenzo, Evelyn, and me.

The silence was deafening.

Evelyn sank back into her chair, the adrenaline leaving her body. Her hands began to shake violently again.

I rushed forward with a glass of water. “Here, Mrs. Moretti. Sip this slowly.”

She took it, her fingers brushing mine. “Thank you, Clara. You are a brave girl.”

Lorenzo stood at the head of the table, staring down at the bloody rosary in his palm.

“They killed him,” Lorenzo muttered, tracing the cross. “All these years, I thought it was black ice on the highway. But they ran him off the road.”

He looked up at his mother.

“Ma, why would Vincenzo owe a debt to the Bellamys? He was the family accountant. He was meticulous.”

Evelyn looked away, a shadow passing over her face.

“There are things about your uncle you don’t know, Lorenzo,” she said quietly.

“Tell me.”

She hesitated. Then she looked at me. “Clara, would you please go to the library? On the bottom shelf behind the encyclopedia, there is a hollow leather book. Bring it to me.”

I nodded immediately. “Yes, ma’am.”

I hurried down the hall to the dark, wood-paneled library. It smelled of old paper and cigar smoke.

I found the encyclopedia. I reached behind it and pulled out a heavy, fake leather book.

As I carried it back, I tripped slightly on the thick Persian rug.

The book popped open.

I scrambled to pick up the contents.

A stack of faded photographs had spilled out.

I gathered them quickly, but my eyes caught the image on the top photo.

It was a picture of a young Vincenzo Moretti.

But he wasn’t alone.

He was holding a baby.

And standing next to him, smiling brightly at the camera, was my mother.

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