Chapter 7 - THE TRAIN TICKET TO NOWHERE
“Get everyone back!” Dominic roared, his voice echoing like thunder through the mansion.
Panic erupted in the dining room. The fourteen elite guests scrambled toward the rear exits, abandoning their coats and dignity in a desperate rush to escape.
I grabbed Clara’s hand, pulling her and Caroline toward the safety of the back hallway, but Clara resisted. Her nurse’s instincts kicked in, her eyes wide with frantic bravery.
“Mom, the staff is still in the kitchen!” Clara shouted over the chaos.
“I’ll get them!” I promised, pushing her toward Patricia. “Stay with your aunt and Caroline! Do not go near the front doors!”
Dominic drew a sleek black handgun from his shoulder holster. His face was a mask of terrifying, lethal calm. He didn't run; he stalked toward the grand foyer with the terrifying grace of an apex predator.
Anthony was right behind him, having grabbed a heavy bronze fireplace poker. For the first time in twenty-six years, the older brother looked ready to fight for his family instead of hiding behind them.
I rushed toward the kitchen, ushering the terrified chefs and servers out the back service doors into the cold, pouring rain.
Once they were clear, I couldn't stop myself. My heart was pounding in my throat, but I ran back toward the main hallway. I had to see. I had given twenty-nine years of my life to this house; I wasn't going to let an entitled brat burn it down.
I reached the edge of the grand foyer just as Dominic kicked the heavy mahogany front doors wide open.
The cold Chicago rain blew into the house, soaking the marble floors.
Standing on the sprawling stone porch, completely drenched in the downpour, was Isabella Romano.
Her designer dress was ruined, plastered to her skin. Her perfect hair was plastered to her face. In her right hand, she held an empty red gasoline canister.
In her left, she held a silver Zippo lighter. Its small, flickering orange flame defied the rain.
The harsh smell of gasoline hit my nose, thick and suffocating. She had doused the entire porch, the heavy wooden doors, and the antique rugs inside the entryway.
“Drop the lighter, Isabella,” Dominic commanded, raising his weapon. His voice cut through the sound of the driving rain. “If you drop it, the fumes will ignite the air. You’ll burn alive before the fire even reaches the house.”
Isabella laughed—a manic, hysterical sound that sent chills down my spine.
“I don't care!” Isabella screamed, her eyes wide and unhinged. “If I don't get this house, nobody gets it! I will turn your mother’s legacy into ash!”
“You’ve lost, Isabella,” Anthony stepped forward, raising the heavy bronze poker. “Your blackmail is gone. The necklace is destroyed. Go home to your father.”
Isabella glared at Anthony with pure, unadulterated venom.
“You think my mother’s blackmail was just a necklace?” Isabella shrieked over the storm. “You think my family trusted a pregnant maid to keep a secret just because we gave her some jewelry?”
Dominic frowned, his gun unwavering. “What are you talking about?”
Isabella slowly reached into the soaking wet pocket of her ruined dress.
She pulled out a small, rectangular piece of faded paper. It was sealed inside a clear plastic sleeve to protect it from the elements.
She held it up by the flame of her lighter.
“Caroline didn't tell you the whole truth, Anthony,” Isabella sneered, a wicked smile twisting her face. “She didn't run away with just a necklace. She tried to run away with someone else.”
Isabella tossed the plastic sleeve onto the soaked stone porch.
It slid across the wet ground, stopping just inches from Dominic’s boots.
Dominic didn't take his eyes or his gun off Isabella. “Anthony. Pick it up.”
Anthony stepped forward cautiously, keeping the poker raised. He bent down and picked up the plastic sleeve.
He looked at the piece of paper inside.
Instantly, the color drained from Anthony’s face. The heavy bronze poker slipped from his grip, clattering loudly against the marble floor.
“No,” Anthony whispered, his voice breaking into a dry sob. “Where did you get this?”
Dominic didn't look down. “What is it, Anthony?”
Anthony’s hands were shaking so violently he could barely hold the paper.
“It’s a train ticket,” Anthony choked out, tears mixing with the rain on his face. “From Union Station to Boston. Dated September 14th, twenty-six years ago. The night Vincent was killed.”
Isabella’s cruel laughter echoed over the rain.
“Read the name on the ticket, Anthony!” Isabella taunted. “Read it out loud for your brother!”
Anthony squeezed his eyes shut, his chest heaving with agony.
“It’s in my name,” Anthony wept. “Anthony Moretti.”
I gasped from the hallway.
Dominic’s eyes widened in shock. He finally lowered his gun slightly, looking at his brother.
“You bought a ticket?” Dominic asked, the realization hitting him like a freight train. “You were going to run away with Caroline?”
Anthony fell to his knees on the wet marble.
“I promised her,” Anthony sobbed, burying his face in his hands. “After I shot Vincent, I told her to pack a bag. I bought two tickets to Boston. I promised her I would leave the family, leave the money, and we would raise our baby together.”
Dominic stared at his broken brother. “Then why didn't you go?”
It was Isabella who answered, her voice dripping with triumphant malice.
“Because my mother found him at the train station first,” Isabella sneered, stepping closer to the fumes. “Sofia Romano caught the terrified little prince trying to flee. She told him that if he got on that train with Caroline, she would slaughter them both.”
Isabella looked down at Anthony with absolute disgust.
“So he made a choice,” Isabella announced to the world. “He let Caroline get on the train alone. He gave my mother the ticket as proof of his surrender. And he crawled back to his daddy’s mansion to live like a coward while his pregnant girlfriend disappeared into the night.”
Isabella raised the lighter higher.
“Your family is built on cowardice, Dominic!” Isabella screamed. “Your brother sold his soul, and my family owns the receipt! Now, watch it all burn!”
She moved to drop the lighter into the puddle of gasoline at her feet.
But before the flame could leave her fingers, a heavy, solid object flew through the air from the hallway behind me.
It struck Isabella squarely in the wrist with a sickening crack.
Isabella shrieked in pain, dropping the lighter.
The silver Zippo clattered against the stone porch, bouncing away from the gasoline and sputtering out in a deep puddle of rain.
I turned around in shock.
Standing behind me, breathing heavily, was seventy-four-year-old Evelyn Parker.
May you like
She had just thrown the heavy silver pocket watch—the bloodstained watch that had started this entire nightmare—like a baseball.
“I told you to keep your hands off my quilt, you spoiled brat,” Evelyn said fiercely.
