Chapter 5 – THE TORN PHOTOGRAPH

The photograph slipped from my fingers.

Answer one: My father, a man who worked as a quiet accountant on the South Side of Chicago, wasn’t just a bystander. He had a direct connection to Elena Moretti. He had helped her disappear.

Luca noticed my shock. He picked up the photograph, his eyes scanning the image before snapping to my face.

“You know this man,” Luca said, a statement of terrifying fact.

“He’s my father,” I choked out, tears of absolute confusion blurring my vision. “Arthur Collins. He died of a heart attack three years ago.”

Luca looked at Vanessa, who was watching us with a malicious, knowing smile.

“Your father was a very talented accountant, Hannah,” Vanessa sneered. “He was the one who hid Elena’s money in offshore accounts so she could run. He was her exit strategy. And her lover.”

My stomach plummeted. “You’re lying.”

“Am I?” Vanessa challenged. “Why do you think I hired you as a maid? I knew who you were. I brought you into this house to keep an eye on you, just in case your father left you any evidence of where Elena went.”

Open two: If my father hid Elena, did he leave me a clue? And if he died three years ago, who is funding Elena now?

“Take her to the soundproof room,” Luca ordered the guards, completely ignoring Vanessa’s taunts. “She doesn’t sleep until we have an address.”

Luca grabbed my hand, pulling me out of the basement and up to his private office. He locked the heavy oak doors and poured a glass of amber whiskey, pressing it into my shaking hands.

“Drink,” he commanded gently.

I took a sip. The burn grounded me.

“My father was a good man,” I whispered, staring at the crystal glass. “He took care of my mother. He paid for my college before he died. He wasn’t involved in the mafia.”

“People do desperate things for love, Hannah,” Luca said, sitting on the edge of his desk. He didn’t look angry; he looked profoundly tired. “If he loved Elena, he would have done whatever it took to hide her from me.”

“But I don’t know anything,” I pleaded. “I don’t have any evidence.”

Luca reached into his pocket and pulled out a heavy, men’s winter coat. He had retrieved it from the coat check after the guests left.

“This was your father’s,” Luca said. “Vanessa had it in the trunk of her car. We seized her vehicle.”

I stared at the familiar worn brown wool. I hadn’t seen that coat since the day of his funeral.

“Why would she have his coat?” I asked, setting the glass down.

“Because she was searching for the account numbers,” Luca explained. “And she didn’t find them.”

I ran my hands over the familiar fabric. The memories of my father wearing it in the snow flooded my chest. My fingers brushed against the thick collar.

There was a strange, hard lump inside the lining.

“Mr. Moretti,” I said, my heart racing. “Do you have a pocket knife?”

Luca handed me a sleek, silver blade.

I carefully slit the lining of the collar.

A string of heavy, dark wooden beads fell into my palm, followed by a small, silver crucifix.

TITLE: THE WOODEN ROSARY

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