Chapter 7 – THE WOODEN ROSARY

The rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor was the only sound in the dim hospital room.

Lily looked so incredibly small in the center of the large, white bed. An IV dripped clear fluids into her tiny arm.

I pulled a chair to the edge of the mattress and gently took her hand.

“Hi, my brave girl,” I whispered, forcing a smile through my tears.

Lily blinked sleepily. “Hi, Mommy.”

Hearing her say that word again—knowing she finally knew the truth—was like rain falling after a decade of drought.

“Are you mad at me?” she asked quietly.

“Never,” I said, kissing her knuckles. “I could never be mad at you, Lily. I love you more than anything in the world.”

She offered a weak, sweet smile. Then, with her free hand, she reached under her thin hospital pillow.

She pulled out a tangled, beautifully carved wooden rosary.

The beads were smooth and dark, worn down by years of prayer.

I stopped breathing.

“Where did you get this?” I asked, my voice barely working.

“Daddy Charles had it in his pocket,” Lily whispered. “He dropped it in the car when he was yelling at the bad man outside the house. I picked it up. I hid it for you.”

I took the rosary with shaking hands.

It was my mother’s.

She had died when I was six years old. This rosary was the only thing I had left of her. I thought I had lost it during the divorce.

Luca, who had been standing silently in the doorway, stepped into the room. His eyes locked onto the wooden beads in my hands.

“May I?” he asked softly.

I nodded, handing it to him.

Luca examined the small silver crucifix attached to the end. He turned it over. Engraved on the back were three letters: V. E. M.

Luca closed his eyes. A deep, unsteady breath escaped his lips.

“Hannah,” Luca said, opening his eyes. They were shining with unshed tears. “What was your mother’s maiden name?”

“Moretti,” I whispered, confused. “Valeria Moretti. She immigrated here from Italy before I was born.”

Luca looked at me, a profound, overwhelming emotion breaking through his stoic exterior.

“She didn’t immigrate,” Luca said, his voice breaking. “She ran away.”

He handed the rosary back to me, closing my fingers over it.

“Valeria wasn’t just a Moretti,” Luca said softly. “She was my father’s oldest sister. She ran away from the family business to marry a mechanic. Arthur Brooks.”

I stared at him. The room spun.

“Which makes you,” Luca smiled, a genuine, warm smile, “my cousin.”

The absolute shock hit me like a physical blow.

“Charles didn’t just target you for your father’s money,” Luca explained, the pieces finally aligning. “He targeted you because you are a Moretti. He thought he could use you to lay claim to the syndicate if I was ever removed.”

I looked at the rosary. I looked at Lily.

I wasn’t just a maid. I wasn’t an abandoned, helpless victim.

I had blood ties to the most powerful family in the city.

And suddenly, the door to the hospital room was shoved violently open.

Charles stood there, bleeding from a cut above his eye, holding a scalpel to the throat of a terrified nurse.

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