Chapter 9 – THE BURNED ROSARY

The morning sun filtered through the sheer curtains of the Chicago mansion, catching the dust motes dancing in the air.

The dining room had been cleaned. The shattered glass was swept away, the mahogany table polished. It looked as if the nightmare of last night had never happened.

But I hadn’t slept.

I sat at the kitchen island, staring at the object I had found under the table.

A wooden rosary.

It was old, the beads worn smooth by time, but the wooden cross at the end was distinctly charred. Burned black.

Nonna Vittoria shuffled into the kitchen, her cane tapping rhythmically against the tile. She poured herself a cup of black espresso and glanced at me.

Then, she saw what was on the counter.

The espresso cup shattered against the floor.

“Nonna!” I jumped up, rushing to her side. “Are you okay? Did you burn yourself?”

She didn’t look at the spilled coffee. She was staring at the rosary, her face completely bloodless.

“Where did you find that?” she croaked, gripping my arm with surprising strength.

“Under the table last night,” I said, confused. “I thought it might have fallen out of Carmine’s pocket during the fight.”

Nonna shook her head violently. “No. Carmine would never carry that. It belongs to a ghost.”

My stomach tightened. “What do you mean?”

“That rosary belonged to the man who ordered the hit on Vincent’s father twenty years ago,” Nonna whispered, crossing herself. “Don Falcone. He’s been dead for ten years. He burned in a warehouse fire.”

I stared at the charred cross. “Then how did this get into our dining room?”

“Someone brought it,” a deep voice said from the doorway.

Vincent stood there, holding little Leo in his arms. He looked exhausted, but his eyes were hard.

“And they didn’t just leave a rosary,” Vincent said, walking to the counter. He set down a crisp white envelope next to the beads.

“I found this taped to the front gates this morning.”

I picked up the envelope. It was addressed to me. Not Vincent.

I opened it. Inside was a single photograph.

It was a picture of Leo, taken through the iron bars of our front gate. The timestamp in the corner read 6:00 AM.

Someone had been outside our house just hours ago.

And written on the back of the photo in elegant, black ink were four words:

Bring me my grandson.

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