Chapter 3 - THE ORPHAN’S ROSARY
“Do you know him?” Luca repeated, his voice thick with an emotion I couldn’t name.
I stared at the tiny photograph inside the watch casing. The boy had dark, curly hair and familiar, intense eyes. But it was the heavy silver rosary around his neck that held my attention. It was unique, with a broken cross at the bottom.
“No, sir,” I said honestly, stepping back. “I didn’t see a child at the wedding. I’m sorry.”
Vanessa, still crumpled on the floor, let out a panicked gasp. She scrambled forward, reaching desperately for the watch.
“Give that back! Julian told me to keep it hidden!”
Luca pulled his hand away, his eyes blazing with a renewed, terrifying fury. “Who is this boy, Vanessa? That rosary went missing the night my brother Mateo was killed five years ago.”
Vanessa shook her head, dark mascara streaking down her pale cheeks.
“I don’t know his name! Julian—Marcus—he forced me to do this. He said if I didn’t marry you and get him the access codes to your offshore accounts, he’d hurt the boy.”
“Where is he?” Luca’s voice was a low growl that vibrated through the silent room. The last of the guests had vanished. We were alone with the guards.
“He’s at a boarding house on the South Side,” Vanessa sobbed, clutching her expensive gown. “Saint Helena’s. That’s all I know. Julian uses him as leverage. Luca, please, I didn’t want to betray you—”
“Lock her in the east wing until I figure out what to do with her,” Luca snapped at his guards.
As the men dragged a screaming Vanessa away, Luca turned back to me. The dangerous mafia boss was gone. In his place was a desperate, shattered man staring at a ghost.
“Mateo had a son,” Luca whispered, tracing the edge of the photograph with a trembling thumb. “My brother had a child he never told me about.”
He looked up, meeting my eyes.
“You’re the only person in this house who hasn't lied to me tonight, Sophie. Get your coat. You’re coming with me.”
“Sir, I’m just a housemaid—”
“Tonight, you’re the woman who just saved my life,” he interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument. “And I might need a woman’s touch to approach a terrified child.”
Ten minutes later, I was sitting in the passenger seat of Luca’s black armored SUV. The rain pounded against the windshield as we sped through the dark Chicago streets, the city blurring into streaks of neon and gray.
We pulled up to Saint Helena’s, a grim, brick building surrounded by a rusted iron fence. It didn’t look like a boarding house. It looked like a prison for the forgotten.
Luca kicked the front door open, ignoring the startled gasp of the elderly woman asleep at the front desk.
“Where is the boy?” Luca demanded, flashing a wad of cash and a look that promised violence if she lied.
The woman stammered, pointing a shaking finger toward the top of the stairs. “Room 402.”
We ran up the narrow, creaking staircase. Luca drew a heavy pistol from his shoulder holster. My breath caught in my throat, but I stayed right behind his broad shoulders.
He kicked the door to Room 402 open.
The room was small, freezing, and lit only by a flickering streetlamp outside the dirty window.
A little boy, no older than five, sat huddled in the corner, clutching a threadbare blanket. Around his neck was the heavy silver rosary with the broken cross.
He looked exactly like Luca.
Luca dropped his gun to the floor and fell to his knees, his eyes filling with tears.
“Hey, buddy,” Luca choked out, holding his hands up to show he was unarmed. “You’re safe now.”
He reached out to gently touch the boy’s shoulder.
But the boy flinched violently, pressing himself flat against the peeling wallpaper.
“Don’t touch me!” the child cried, his voice shrill with terror. He held up a small, crumpled piece of paper like a shield. “My daddy said the man with the snake tattoo is the bad man! He said you hurt him!”
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I looked down at Luca’s exposed forearm.
Winding around his wrist, stark black against his olive skin, was a large, intricate tattoo of a serpent.
