Chapter 9 – The Secrets In The Past

The kitchen suddenly felt freezing cold.

I stared at the photograph of my sister and the federal prosecutor. The cheerful sounds of my family laughing in the dining room felt a million miles away.

Clara made a deal with the feds twenty years ago.

Why? Clara had never been involved in the business. She was a civilian. She lived in the suburbs, went to church on Sundays, and baked cookies. Why would she need immunity?

I shoved the letter and the photograph into the pocket of my cardigan just as Antonio walked into the kitchen carrying empty wine glasses.

“Maggie?” he asked, noticing my pale face. “Are you alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I’m fine,” I lied smoothly, forcing a smile. “Just tired. It’s been a long day.”

He kissed my cheek and started loading the dishwasher. “Go upstairs and rest. I’ll finish cleaning up.”

I nodded, hurrying out of the kitchen and up the grand staircase to our master suite. I locked the door behind me, my heart pounding, and pulled the letter back out.

I needed to know the truth. The mafia war was over, but the poison in my own bloodline was still buried.

I pulled out my phone and dialed the number at the top of Clara’s stationary.

It went to a private recovery facility in Chicago.

“Room 402,” I demanded when the operator answered.

A moment later, a weak, raspy voice came through the line.

“Hello, Margaret.”

“You sent the letter,” I said, my voice trembling with suppressed rage. “You held a gun to my daughter’s head, Clara. And now you’re sending me puzzles? What did you do twenty years ago?”

Clara coughed weakly on the other end of the line.

“I protected myself,” Clara whispered. “Do you remember the summer of 2004? When Antonio’s rival, the Greco family, almost wiped out the Moretti leadership?”

I remembered it vividly. It was the bloodiest summer of our lives. Antonio had sent Elena and me to Italy for three months to keep us safe.

“I was left behind in Chicago,” Clara said bitterly. “Antonio’s men were supposed to protect my house. But they abandoned their post when the shooting started. The Greco hitmen broke into my home, Margaret. They were looking for you.”

My breath hitched. “Clara…”

“They beat my husband half to death,” she sobbed, the trauma still fresh two decades later. “They put a gun to my head. And they told me that if I didn’t give them Antonio’s location, they would burn my house down with me in it.”

“You gave them his location?” I gasped.

“No,” Clara said. “I didn’t know where he was. So they gave me a choice. I could die, or I could become their informant inside the Moretti family.”

I sank onto the edge of the bed. Clara had been a mole for the Grecos.

“But the Grecos were wiped out by the end of that summer,” I reasoned, confused. “Antonio killed their boss.”

“Yes,” Clara agreed. “But before the boss died, he sold my name to the feds. The FBI approached me a year later. They had recordings of me helping the Grecos. They threatened to put me in prison for conspiracy to commit murder unless I became an informant for them.”

The puzzle pieces locked into place.

“You’ve been feeding the FBI information on Antonio for twenty years,” I whispered, horrified.

“I had to!” Clara cried. “I had a family to protect!”

“And what did you give Carlo?” I demanded.

“A few months ago, my FBI handler told me they were finally preparing to indict Antonio,” Clara explained. “They had enough to put him away for life. But Carlo found out. He intercepted the indictment files. Carlo came to me and said if I helped him stage a coup, he would use his contacts to bury my FBI file.”

“So you helped him fake the photo of me at the airport,” I realized. “You let Antonio think I was the mole, to cover your own tracks.”

“I’m sorry, Margaret,” Clara wept. “I was terrified. I just wanted to be free of this life.”

“You pointed a gun at my daughter,” I said, my voice turning to ice. “You are dead to me, Clara. Do not ever contact me again.”

I hung up the phone and threw it onto the bed.

My sister had betrayed us out of fear. It didn’t excuse what she did, but it finally closed the loop on the mystery. The lies were exposed. The past was buried.

Or so I thought.

I walked into Antonio’s massive walk-in closet to grab my pajamas. As I reached up to the top shelf to pull down a heavy sweater, a small wooden box, hidden behind a stack of winter hats, caught my eye.

I frowned. I had packed this closet myself when we moved. I had never seen this box before.

Curiosity getting the better of me, I pulled it down. It wasn’t locked.

I opened the lid.

Inside was a single, faded newspaper clipping from the summer of 2004.

I stared at the clipping, a cold knot forming in my stomach. Antonio had always told me the Greco boss was killed in a warehouse shootout. He swore women and children were never involved.

But tucked beneath the newspaper clipping was a small, delicate silver necklace. A child’s necklace.

And attached to the necklace was a tag with a single name engraved on it.

Vanessa.

TITLE: The Necklace In The Wooden Box

Share