Chapter 3 - THE STOPPED WATCH
The heavy silver pocket watch rested in the mahogany box like a dormant bomb.
Alessandro reached out, his large hands trembling slightly, and lifted the watch by its tarnished chain. The chandelier light caught the deep, rusted stains on the casing. The glass face was shattered, frozen forever at 9:14.
A collective gasp rippled through the wealthy guests seated around the table. In the Romano family, the time 9:14 was infamous. It was the exact minute, eight months ago, that the estate doctor had pronounced Mrs. Romano dead of natural heart failure in her upstairs bedroom.
“What is this?” Alessandro whispered, his voice stripped of its usual authority. He looked at me, a desperate plea for clarity in his eyes.
“That watch belonged to Arthur Rossi,” Uncle Frank said from his seat, answering before I could. Frank’s face was ashen, his eyes fixed on the silver timepiece. “I recognize the engraving on the back. A roaring lion. Your father gave it to Arthur twenty-six years ago.”
Alessandro turned the watch over. The roaring lion was there, obscured by the dried blood.
“Why was it locked in my mother’s jewelry box?” Alessandro demanded. “And why is there blood on it?”
Isabella lunged forward, her fingers clawing toward the watch. “Give it to me! It belongs to my family!”
Alessandro violently pulled the watch out of her reach, his eyes blazing with a sudden, terrifying realization. “Don’t touch it.”
He looked at the frozen hands on the dial. 9:14.
“Margaret,” Alessandro said, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. “Where did you find this watch?”
I swallowed, the memory of that terrible night rushing back to me. “I found it beneath your mother’s bed, Mr. Romano. The morning after she passed away. She had been clutching it so tightly that when she dropped it, it rolled under the bed frame. I hid it in the box because… because I knew she hadn’t died naturally.”
Answer One. Mrs. Romano’s death was not a tragedy of old age. It was murder. The stopped watch was the proof of a struggle.
Open Two. But whose blood was on the watch? If Arthur Rossi was murdered twenty-six years ago, how did his watch end up in Mrs. Romano’s bedroom the night she died?
“You knew?” Alessandro roared, slamming his fist onto the table. The crystal wineglasses shook, and a few spilled, sending dark red stains bleeding into the white linen tablecloth. “You knew my mother was murdered and you said nothing for eight months?!”
“I was protecting you, sir!” I cried, tears finally breaking through my professional composure. “Your mother told me that if anything happened to her, I was to wait until the engagement dinner. She said the killer would reveal themselves when the estate was on the line!”
Alessandro turned slowly toward Isabella. The look in his eyes wasn’t just anger; it was the cold, calculating executioner’s stare of a mafia boss.
“You killed her,” Alessandro stated. It wasn’t a question.
“No!” Isabella screamed, backing away until she hit the edge of the serving buffet. “Alessandro, I swear to God, I didn’t touch her! I loved her!”
“Your father’s watch was found under her bed, stopped at the exact minute she died!” Alessandro shouted, advancing on her. “You went into her room. You demanded she sign the estate transfer. She refused, and you killed her!”
Reversal.
Isabella fell to her knees, sobbing hysterically, the elegant evening gown pooling around her like spilled blood.
“I was in the room!” Isabella confessed, her voice cracking in pure terror. “I was there, Alessandro! But I didn’t kill her! I went in to check on her, and she was already fighting for her life. Someone else was in there. Someone was holding a pillow over her face!”
The dining room descended into chaos. Several guests stood up, pushing their chairs back, frantic to escape the room. But Alessandro’s personal security guards, silent and imposing in the shadows, stepped in front of the heavy oak double doors. No one was leaving.
“Who?” Alessandro demanded, grabbing Isabella by the shoulders and pulling her off the floor. “Who was holding the pillow?”
Isabella sobbed, mascara running down her cheeks in dark, ugly rivers. “I couldn’t see their face! They hit me. That’s why the watch broke. I tried to stop them, and they hit me with it, and then they ran out through the balcony doors!”
“You’re lying,” Uncle Frank said, standing up. “You’re just trying to save your own skin. You killed her for the estate.”
“I’m not lying!” Isabella shrieked, looking frantically around the room until her eyes locked onto the large doorway leading to the grand foyer.
Her breath hitched.
“I’m not lying,” Isabella repeated, her voice dropping to a trembling whisper. “And I can prove it. Because I wasn’t the only one who saw it happen.”
Everyone in the room turned to follow her gaze.
Standing in the grand doorway, soaking wet from the freezing rain outside, was a ten-year-old boy. He wore a rumpled boarding school uniform, his small hands clutching a worn, blue canvas backpack.
It was Leo. Alessandro’s estranged son.
My heart broke at the sight of him. Six months ago, Isabella had convinced Alessandro that a strict military boarding school in Switzerland was the only way to discipline the grieving boy. She had shipped him away to remove the final obstacle to the family fortune.
And now, he was standing in the doorway, shivering, staring at the adults with wide, terrified eyes.
“Leo?” Alessandro gasped, dropping his hold on Isabella. All the rage vanished from his face, replaced by the profound shock of a father. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be in Geneva.”
Leo didn’t move toward his father. He didn’t run to embrace him. Instead, the little boy’s eyes darted around the room, full of a deep, agonizing fear that no child should ever possess.
He looked at Isabella on the floor. He looked at his father.
And then, Leo ran straight toward me.
He buried his wet face into my apron, wrapping his small, freezing arms around my waist. I immediately dropped to my knees and hugged him tight, shielding him from the stares of the wealthy strangers.
“It’s okay, my sweet boy,” I whispered, stroking his damp hair. “Margaret is here. I’ve got you.”
“Leo,” Alessandro said gently, taking a step toward us. “Son, talk to me. Why did you run away?”
Leo turned his head just enough to look at his father.
“I didn’t run away because of school, Dad,” Leo’s voice was small, but it echoed clearly in the silent room. “I ran away because I heard you were marrying her tonight. And I couldn’t let you do it.”
Isabella closed her eyes in defeat.
Leo unzipped the front pocket of his wet backpack. His small, trembling fingers pulled out a crumpled piece of drawing paper. It was torn at the edges, stained with water, but the crayon colors were still vibrant.
“Isabella is telling the truth, Dad,” Leo whispered, his voice trembling. “She didn’t kill Grandma.”
Leo unfolded the drawing and held it up for his father to see.
It was a child’s crude drawing of Mrs. Romano’s bedroom. It showed the bed, the balcony, and a figure holding a white pillow over Mrs. Romano’s face.
But the figure didn’t have Isabella’s long dark hair.
The figure was wearing a very specific, bright yellow silk tie.
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My blood ran completely cold as I looked up from the drawing, across the table, straight at Uncle Frank.
He was wearing a yellow silk tie.
