Chapter 3 - THE BLOODSTAINED WATCH
The threat hung in the air, heavy and suffocating.
A war between the Moretti and Romano families would tear Chicago apart. It was the exact reason Dominic and Isabella’s engagement had been arranged in the first place—to forge an unbreakable peace.
But looking at the bloodstained silver watch in Dominic’s hand, that peace was already dead.
“Who does this watch belong to, Isabella?” Dominic demanded, stepping so close to her that she had to tilt her head back to look at him.
Isabella was trembling, her pristine manicured nails digging into the edge of the mahogany table.
“It belonged to my uncle, Vincent Romano,” she whispered, the cruelty in her voice entirely replaced by genuine fear. “He disappeared twenty-six years ago. My family was told he ran off to Europe with embezzled money. We buried an empty casket for the sake of pride.”
Dominic’s jaw tightened. He looked at Anthony, who was staring at the floor, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes.
“Our father didn't fire Caroline for stealing,” Dominic said, the horrifying realization dawning on him. “He framed her. Because Caroline witnessed our father murder Vincent Romano.”
I felt a cold chill run down my spine. Caroline. My sweet, quiet friend who used to share her lunch with me on the kitchen steps. She had witnessed a mafia execution.
“No,” Patricia’s voice cut through the tension.
The elderly aunt stood up from her chair, her back straight despite her age. She looked at the bloodstained watch with profound sadness.
“Your father didn't kill Vincent Romano,” Patricia said clearly.
Dominic frowned, deeply confused. “Then whose blood is on this watch? Why did my mother hide it?”
Patricia turned her gaze slowly until it rested on Anthony.
“Tell them, Anthony,” Patricia ordered. “Tell your brother who actually pulled the trigger twenty-six years ago.”
The fourteen wealthy guests in the room began to murmur in shock. Some pushed their chairs back, realizing they were sitting in the middle of a deadly family reckoning.
Anthony shook his head frantically. “Aunt Patricia, please. Don't do this.”
“I have kept this secret to protect your mother’s fragile heart,” Patricia said, her voice trembling with decades of suppressed grief. “But Margaret is gone. And I will not let you destroy Evelyn or Helen to keep your lies buried.”
Dominic walked slowly toward his older brother. The betrayal in his eyes was devastating.
“You?” Dominic asked, his voice cracking. “You killed Isabella’s uncle?”
Anthony finally looked up. Tears were streaming down his face, ruining his composed, powerful facade.
“I was nineteen years old, Dominic!” Anthony cried out, his voice echoing off the high ceilings. “Vincent Romano was a monster! He cornered Caroline in the laundry room. He was hurting her! I heard her screaming. I grabbed father’s gun from the study and I shot him to save her life!”
The room fell dead silent.
I covered my mouth with my hands. I remembered that night. I remembered Caroline crying in the kitchen, her uniform torn, her face bruised. She had told me she fell down the stairs. I had believed her.
“Our father heard the gunshot,” Anthony sobbed, burying his face in his hands. “He found me standing over Vincent’s body. He knew the Romanos would slaughter our entire family if they found out his teenage son killed a made man. So he covered it up.”
Dominic stared at his brother in sheer disbelief.
“He ordered his men to dispose of the body,” Anthony confessed, his voice muffled by his hands. “And he forced Caroline to take the fall for a fake robbery so he had an excuse to banish her from the city. It was the only way to get the prime witness out of Chicago before the Romanos started asking questions.”
Isabella stood completely frozen. The uncle she had mourned, the man her family revered, was a predator. And the family she was marrying into had covered up his murder for a quarter of a century.
“But if Caroline was banished,” I spoke up, my voice trembling, “how did Margaret get the watch?”
Anthony lowered his hands. He looked at me, his eyes filled with a haunting sorrow.
“Caroline didn't leave empty-handed, Helen,” Anthony whispered. “Before she fled, she took the watch off Vincent’s body. She kept it as an insurance policy. To make sure our father could never hurt her.”
Dominic looked down at the quilt on the table.
“If Caroline had the watch,” Dominic reasoned, his sharp mind connecting the dots, “then my mother must have found Caroline before she died. She brought the watch back and hid it in this quilt.”
Evelyn Parker nodded slowly, tears welling in her aged eyes. “Yes. Margaret spent a fortune on private investigators. She found Caroline living in poverty in Ohio. She brought her back to Chicago in secret to apologize. That’s when Caroline gave her the watch.”
“And that’s why you cut the fourteenth square out, Anthony,” Dominic said in disgust. “You didn't want anyone looking too closely at this quilt. You knew what was hidden inside.”
Anthony vigorously shook his head.
“No, Dominic, I swear to God,” Anthony pleaded, stepping forward. “I didn't know the watch was in the quilt. I didn't cut the square out.”
Dominic’s brow furrowed. “Then who did?”
Anthony pointed a trembling finger directly at Isabella.
“She did,” Anthony said.
Isabella gasped, her eyes darting wildly toward the exit.
“He’s lying!” Isabella shrieked, backing away. “He’s a murderer trying to deflect blame!”
But as Isabella stepped back, the strap of her expensive designer purse caught on the edge of a dining chair. The purse tumbled to the hardwood floor, spilling its contents across the Persian rug.
Lipstick, keys, a compact mirror, and a cell phone scattered across the floor.
And fluttering down right beside them, landing perfectly face up under the chandelier light, was a small, neatly cut square of blue-and-white fabric.
Embroidered in the center, in beautiful, careful stitching, was the name: Caroline Hayes.
Isabella stared at the fabric on the floor, her breath hitching in her throat.
Dominic looked from the fabric to his fiancée. His face turned to stone.
“Why do you have that, Isabella?” Dominic asked, his voice dangerously low.
Isabella swallowed hard, cornered. She slowly knelt down, not to pick up the fabric, but to pick up a small, folded piece of paper that had also fallen from her purse.
“Because,” Isabella said, her voice shaking as she unfolded the paper, “when Margaret found Caroline in Ohio... Caroline wasn't alone.”
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Isabella held up the paper. It was an old, faded photograph.
“Caroline took something else from this house twenty-six years ago,” Isabella whispered, turning the photo toward Dominic. “She took your brother’s child.”
