Chapter 3 - The Hidden Crest
“A Keeper of Secrets?” Isabella repeated, staring at the tarnished silver watch resting in her trembling palm.
“It means he was the only man my father trusted with his life,” Matteo said, his dark eyes fixed on the crest. “If your father had this watch, he knew exactly where my father’s true assets were hidden. And he knew who was trying to steal them.”
The heavy mahogany doors to the ballroom groaned slightly, a subtle warning that Carlo’s men were likely waiting on the other side.
“We have to leave,” Matteo commanded, his voice dropping to a low, authoritative register that left no room for argument. “If Carlo realizes who you are, or that you have Arthur’s watch, you won’t make it out of this building.”
“I can’t just leave!” Isabella protested quietly, panicking. “My manager has my ID, my coat. If I run out on a shift, I’ll be fired. I have people who depend on me!”
“Isabella.” Matteo reached out, his large, warm hands gripping her shoulders, forcing her to look directly into his eyes. The sheer intensity of his gaze anchored her spiraling panic. “Your job does not matter anymore. The men in that ballroom murdered your father. And right now, they are waiting for me to walk into a slaughter. I will protect you, and I will compensate you for whatever you lose tonight, but you have to trust me. Do you understand?”
Isabella swallowed hard. She looked at the watch, then at the ballroom doors, and finally back at the billionaire mafia boss who had just turned her world upside down.
“Okay,” she whispered.
“Walk slightly behind me,” Matteo instructed. “Keep your head down. If anyone speaks to us, you are guiding me to the wine cellar to inspect a vintage bottle for the toast. Do not look at Carlo.”
They moved swiftly down the opulent, carpeted hallway, moving away from the main ballroom and toward the estate’s sprawling kitchen wing. Waitstaff rushed past them with trays of caviar and empty glasses, oblivious to the deadly game playing out in the shadows of the mansion.
They reached the heavy glass doors leading to the valet courtyard. The rain had started to fall, casting a slick, mirror-like sheen over the line of luxury cars.
“Matteo.”
The voice cut through the humid night air like a blade.
Isabella froze. Matteo stopped, turning slowly.
Standing under the grand stone archway of the patio was Carlo. He was holding a lit cigar, the cherry glowing fiercely in the dark. Beside him stood the groom from the wedding, still wearing his immaculate white tuxedo, though his posture was distinctly threatening.
“The announcement is starting,” Carlo said, his smile perfectly polite, but his eyes dead. “Where are you going, nephew? You’re abandoning our hosts.”
“I have a sudden emergency at the downtown property,” Matteo lied effortlessly, his voice smooth as silk. “A structural issue. It requires my immediate signature. I’ll be back before the cake is cut.”
Carlo took a slow drag of his cigar. His gaze drifted to Isabella, lingering on her for a moment too long. “And the waitress? Is she structurally essential?”
“She spilled champagne on my jacket,” Matteo said coldly. “She’s walking me to my car to offer a formal apology before I have her fired.”
Carlo chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. “You always were too harsh on the help, Matteo. Don’t be long. The family needs you.”
“I’ll be right back, Uncle,” Matteo said.
He didn’t wait for a response. He placed a firm hand on Isabella’s lower back and guided her out into the rain. They walked briskly toward a sleek, armored black SUV parked near the edge of the courtyard. Matteo opened the passenger door, practically shoving Isabella inside before climbing into the driver’s seat.
The engine roared to life with a ferocious, throaty growl, and Matteo slammed his foot on the gas. The heavy SUV tore out of the estate gates, leaving the glowing mansion and its smiling traitors behind in the mist.
For ten minutes, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the rhythmic thumping of the windshield wipers aggressively fighting the heavy rain.
Isabella sat clutching the tarnished silver pocket watch against her chest, her breathing finally beginning to slow.
“He knew,” Isabella said quietly, staring out at the dark, winding country road. “Carlo. He looked at me like he recognized me.”
“He likely recognized your father in your face,” Matteo said, keeping his eyes firmly on the road. “Arthur was Carlo’s greatest obstacle. Carlo couldn’t steal my father’s empire as long as your father was keeping the books.”
Matteo pulled the SUV onto a deserted, gravel shoulder overlooking the city lights in the distance. He put the car in park and turned the cabin lights on. He reached his hand out toward Isabella.
“Let me see the watch.”
Isabella hesitated, then gently placed the heavy silver timepiece into Matteo’s palm.
Matteo ran his thumb over the wolf and the shattered crown. “My father had these custom-made in Italy. They are impossible to force open without breaking the internal mechanism. Unless you know the trick.”
He pressed the small winding crown at the top of the watch, twisted it sharply counter-clockwise twice, and then pressed a tiny, almost invisible indentation near the hinge.
With a soft, metallic click, the back casing of the watch popped open.
It wasn’t a solid piece of silver. There was a false bottom.
Isabella leaned in, her heart racing.
Tucked neatly inside the hidden compartment was a small, perfectly folded piece of thick, yellowed paper. It looked like an antique train ticket.
Matteo carefully unfolded it under the warm glow of the cabin light.
It was a ticket for the old Central Terminal, dated twenty years ago. But it wasn’t the destination that made Matteo stop breathing.
May you like
Written on the back of the ticket, in Arthur Bennett’s precise, familiar handwriting, were four terrifying words.
L.R. is still alive.
