Chapter 2 - THE EMERALD ROSARY“She was supposed to have died twenty years ago.”
The whisper hung in the dead silence of the ballroom.
I turned sharply toward the crowd near the heavy mahogany doors. The guests parted like water. Standing there was a woman in a dark evening gown. Elena Costa, my late father’s former secretary. Her face was ashen, her eyes locked on the silver box.
“What did you say, Elena?” I demanded, closing the distance between us.
Before she could answer, my security chief, Rafael, spoke. “Sir. The box.”
Rafael had carefully lifted the crimson ribbon. The lid was already unsealed. Using the tip of his tactical pen, he pushed it open.
There was no explosive device.
Inside sat an old, heavy analog tape recorder. It was still turning, emitting the faint static we had just heard.
Next to it rested a single object.
A tarnished silver chain holding a cluster of brilliant, fractured emeralds. A rosary.
Augusto Ferreira let out a sound that was half-gasp, half-sob. He shoved past me, his expensive cane clattering to the marble floor.
“Don’t touch it!” Augusto shouted, his hands trembling violently as he reached for the box. “That is my daughter’s! That is Isabella’s rosary!”
The room erupted into frantic whispers.
Isabella Ferreira. The tragic heiress of the Ferreira empire. She had died in a boating accident off the coast of Monaco exactly twenty years ago. Her body was never recovered. Only her jacket had washed ashore.
I stared at Augusto. The old industrialist was broken, staring at the emeralds.
Then I looked at the little girl, Beatriz, clinging to her mother’s skirt.
“Isabella died two decades ago,” I said slowly, trying to piece the impossible puzzle together. “Beatriz is four years old. How can she be connected?”
Ana Silva, the terrified banquet server, pulled Beatriz behind her legs. “She isn’t connected to anyone! She is my daughter!”
“Stop lying,” Elena Costa’s voice cut through the room. The elderly secretary stepped forward, pointing a shaking finger at Ana. “Look at her face, Mateo. Look at the girl’s eyes. Her jawline.”
I looked at Beatriz.
The dark, serious eyes. The slight, unique tilt of her brow.
My chest tightened. It was exactly like looking at a photograph of Isabella Ferreira as a child.
“Ana,” I said gently, lowering my voice. “I need the truth. Right now.”
Ana burst into tears. She fell to her knees, clutching Beatriz tightly.
“I didn’t steal her!” Ana cried out. “I swear to God! Four years ago, a woman came to the clinic where I worked as a cleaner. She was bleeding. She handed me the baby and a bag of cash. She told me to run, or the men chasing her would kill us both.”
Augusto stumbled backward, his hand clutching his chest. “My God. Isabella survived. She had a child.”
He looked at Beatriz not with anger, but with profound, desperate love. He took a step toward the little girl.
“My granddaughter,” he whispered.
But Beatriz didn’t smile. She peeked out from behind Ana’s dress, her little brow furrowed.
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She pointed a small finger directly at Augusto.
“Mommy,” Beatriz said, her voice echoing in the silent room. “Why is the bad man from the basement here?”
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