Chapter 9 – THE GHOST IN ROME

The coffee mug slipped from my fingers and shattered on the linoleum floor.

The sharp crash silenced the diner.

Vincent dropped his newspaper. Anthony jumped out of the booth, instinctively stepping in front of Leo. Rose rushed out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Mia? Honey, are you all right?” Rose asked.

I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t breathe. I just stared at the photograph in my hand.

Vincent was by my side in two strides. He looked down at the photo.

For ten seconds, the world stopped spinning.

The woman in the picture had silver hair pulled back into a neat bun. She was older, her face lined with age, but there was no mistaking those sharp cheekbones and the distinct, slight tilt of her left shoulder.

It was Evelyn Caruso.

Vincent’s mother.

The woman who had supposedly died of cancer twenty-two years ago.

“This is impossible,” Vincent whispered. The color drained from his face so fast I thought he was going to pass out. “I buried her. I watched them lower the casket.”

Anthony snatched the photo. He stared at the time-stamp in the bottom right corner.

OCTOBER 24, 2026. 14:32 PM.

“Vince,” Anthony said, his voice trembling. “This was taken yesterday. In Italy.”

“It’s a fake,” Vincent growled, grabbing the photo back. “It’s a Photoshop trick. Daniel sent one of his men to mess with us.”

“Daniel is in federal custody,” Anthony shot back. “He’s cut off from his network.”

Rose slowly approached. Her hands were shaking violently as she reached for the photograph. Vincent gently handed it to her.

Rose stared at the image. A strange, suffocating noise escaped her throat.

“Rose?” I asked gently.

She looked up at Vincent, her eyes wide with a terror I hadn’t seen even when Daniel held a gun to Leo’s head.

“That’s her coat,” Rose whispered.

“What?” Vincent asked.

“The coat she’s wearing in the picture,” Rose pointed a trembling finger at the dark wool trench coat in the photo. “That’s the coat I bought her for her fiftieth birthday. She asked to be buried in it. I buttoned it myself before they closed the casket.”

A chilling silence swept through the diner.

If Evelyn was buried in that coat, she couldn’t be wearing it yesterday in Rome.

Unless the woman in the casket wasn’t Evelyn.

“Answer One, Open Two,” I muttered under my breath, remembering an old phrase my grandmother used to say when one secret only bred more lies. We found out who killed Vincent’s father. Now, we had to find out who was in his mother’s grave.

Vincent grabbed his phone. “I’m calling the mayor. I need an exhumation order for my mother’s grave by noon.”

“Vince, stop,” Anthony warned, grabbing his arm. “If you dig up that grave and it’s not Mom, the feds will tear this family apart looking for her. We just got clear of Daniel’s mess.”

“I don’t care!” Vincent roared, shoving his brother back. “If my mother has been alive for twenty-two years, letting me think she was dead, letting Rose slave away in this kitchen—I need to know why!”

Vincent stormed out the back door, dialing furiously.

Anthony cursed and ran a hand over his face. He looked at Leo, who was watching with wide, frightened eyes. “Hey, buddy, go into the kitchen with Aunt Rose, okay? Eat a pancake.”

Rose nodded numbly, taking Leo’s hand and leading him away.

I started sweeping up the broken glass. My mind was racing. If Evelyn was alive, why did Daniel have a plane ticket to Rome?

Because he was going to her.

Suddenly, I noticed something on the back of the photograph.

In the commotion, no one had flipped it over.

I picked up the photo. Written in elegant, cursive ink were three words:

Ask the Maid.

My breath hitched.

Anthony noticed me freeze. “Mia? What is it?”

I slowly turned the photo around so he could see the writing.

Anthony frowned. “Ask you? Ask you what?”

“I don’t know,” I said, my voice shaking. “I was five years old when your mother died. I didn’t even live in Chicago. I have no connection to Evelyn Caruso.”

Anthony stepped closer, his eyes narrowing. “Who hired you, Mia? Eleven months ago, who conducted your interview to work at the mansion?”

I swallowed hard. “Daniel.”

“And who secured the anonymous scholarship for your sister?”

“Daniel.”

Anthony’s face darkened. He pulled out his phone and dialed a number.

“Who are you calling?” I asked.

“The private investigator who vetted you when you were hired,” Anthony said grimly. “I want to see the background file Daniel gave my brother. Because I think Daniel didn’t just hire you by accident, Mia. I think he hired you because of who you are.”

Before the call connected, the front door of the diner opened again.

I looked up, expecting another stranger in a trench coat.

Instead, a young woman walked in. She was soaking wet from the morning rain, carrying a heavy duffel bag.

She looked exactly like me.

“Chloe?” I gasped.

My younger sister dropped her bag. She looked terrified.

“Mia,” Chloe cried, running toward me. “I had to leave campus. A man came to my dorm this morning. He said if I didn’t give this to you immediately, he was going to kill me.”

Chloe reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, heavy object.

She placed it on the counter.

It was a solid gold rosary.

Anthony stared at it, his face turning pale.

“That’s Mom’s rosary,” Anthony whispered.

I looked at the cross dangling from the beads. Engraved into the back of the gold cross was a single name.

Sophia.

I felt the room spin.

Sophia was my mother’s name. My mother, who died in a car crash when Chloe and I were toddlers. My mother, who we were told had no surviving family.

“Anthony,” I whispered, looking up at him in sheer horror. “Why does Evelyn’s rosary have my mother’s name on it?”

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