Chapter 3 - THE BOY IN THE WATCH
And the boy had Dominic’s exact eyes.
Dominic stared at the tiny, torn photograph nestled inside the casing of the killer’s watch. His thumb traced the jagged edge of the paper, his breathing suddenly ragged.
“Who is this?” Dominic demanded, his voice cracking. He held the watch out toward Victoria. “Who is this child?”
Victoria pressed her back against the mahogany sideboard, her red dress stark against the dark wood. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen him before.”
“You’re carrying Marco Rossi’s watch in your purse, but you don’t know what’s inside it?” Dominic stepped closer, the physical intimidation of a man who ran a criminal empire radiating from him. “Charles just confessed he was blackmailed into liquidating our assets. You orchestrated the auction. And now you’re holding the watch of the man who killed my father. Talk, Victoria. Now.”
Victoria looked at Charles for help, but the old attorney was staring at the photograph with an expression of profound, unutterable grief.
“Dominic,” Charles whispered, his voice trembling. “Let her go. You don’t understand what you’re uncovering.”
“I’m uncovering a betrayal inside my own house,” Dominic snapped.
I stood near the door, my arm wrapped protectively around Marion. The elderly housekeeper was shaking, her eyes fixed on the silver watch.
“Mr. Dominic,” Marion said, her voice surprisingly steady despite her frailty.
Dominic stopped and turned to her. He always listened to Marion.
“That watch didn’t belong to Marco Rossi,” Marion said softly.
The room went dead silent. The reversal hit like a physical blow.
“What are you talking about, Marion?” Dominic asked, his brow furrowed. “The police found this watch at the scene. They identified it as Rossi’s.”
“The police were paid to say that,” Marion replied, stepping forward. “Because your mother, Eleanor, paid them. That watch belonged to your father.”
Answer one: The watch wasn't the killer's; it was the victim's. Open two: Why did Eleanor lie about the watch, and who is the boy in the picture if Dominic is an only child?
“My father?” Dominic looked down at the photograph again. “Then who is the boy? It’s not me. The background is a modern playground. This picture was taken recently.”
Aunt Frances, who had been sitting rigidly at the table, finally spoke. “It’s your brother, Dominic.”
Victoria let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “Oh, tell him the truth, Frances. Tell him why the great Romano family is being squeezed for every dime.”
Frances ignored her. She looked at Dominic with tears in her eyes. “Your father had an affair, Dominic. A woman in Chicago. She had a son twelve years ago. When your mother found out, she was devastated, but she didn’t want the boy to suffer. When your father was killed, Eleanor used the family’s resources to hide the child. She knew Marco Rossi’s syndicate would hunt the boy down to wipe out your father’s bloodline entirely.”
“My mother knew I had a brother,” Dominic whispered, “and she hid him from me?”
“To protect him,” Frances said.
Dominic turned back to Victoria. “And how do you fit into this?”
Victoria lifted her chin, finally dropping the act of the terrified fiancée. “Marco Rossi didn’t die in that car fire, Dominic. He’s alive. And a month ago, he found out about your little half-brother. He kidnapped him.”
The escalation shifted the gravity of the room. This wasn't about stolen jewelry anymore. It was a hostage situation.
“Rossi demanded three million dollars in untraceable assets,” Victoria confessed, her voice hardening. “Charles and I were trying to raise the funds quietly so you wouldn't do something stupid and start a mob war. The auction of the staff’s jewelry was supposed to cover the final payment.”
Dominic stared at her, the betrayal warring with confusion. “You accused an innocent old woman of theft. You threatened my staff. All to pay a ransom?”
“I did what had to be done to protect your empire!” Victoria shouted.
“No,” I said.
The word slipped out of my mouth before I could stop it. I was just a maid, but I couldn't stay silent anymore.
Everyone turned to me.
I pointed at the torn photograph in the watch. “Look at the edge of the photo, Mr. Romano. It’s torn right down the middle.”
Dominic frowned, looking closer at the tiny picture.
“I clean Miss Victoria’s suite every morning,” I said, my heart pounding in my throat as I stepped into the center of the room. “Yesterday, I emptied her wastebasket. I found the other half of that photograph.”
Victoria’s face turned the color of ash.
“Claire, shut your mouth,” Victoria hissed.
I didn't stop. “The other half of the picture shows who the boy is standing with at the playground.”
I reached into my apron pocket, where I had kept the torn scrap of photo paper, intending to ask the house manager about it later. I handed it to Dominic.
He lined the two pieces up.
The boy in the picture was holding the hand of a man. A man with a distinctive scar across his jaw.
Marco Rossi.
And Rossi wasn't holding a gun to the boy's head. They were smiling. They were happy.
May you like
Dominic looked up at Victoria, his eyes burning with absolute fury.
“Rossi didn’t kidnap my brother,” Dominic said, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper. “He’s raising him.”
