Chapter 7 - The Rosary Box
The drive to Isabella’s apartment complex on the edge of the city was a terrifying blur of speed and rain. Matteo drove with a reckless, hyper-focused intensity, running red lights and swerving past late-night traffic.
Isabella sat beside him, her hands clamped tightly together, her knuckles white. She was praying silently, bargaining with any higher power that would listen. Please let Leo be asleep. Please let the babysitter have locked the deadbolt. Please, please, please.
Matteo slammed the brakes, skidding the heavy SUV to a halt in the dimly lit parking lot of the modest, brick apartment building. Before the car was even fully in park, Matteo was out, his suppressed handgun drawn and pressed against his leg.
Isabella sprinted up the concrete stairs to the second floor, ignoring the burning pain in her grazed arm.
When they reached apartment 2B, Isabella stopped dead. Her heart plummeted into her stomach.
The heavy wooden front door was slightly ajar.
The deadbolt had been violently shattered, splintering the doorframe into jagged shards of pine.
“Stay behind me,” Matteo ordered, his voice barely a whisper. He stepped in front of her, raising his weapon, and pushed the broken door open with his shoulder.
The apartment was eerily quiet. The television in the small living room was playing a cartoon on mute. The cheap coffee table had been pushed aside, and the contents of Isabella’s bookshelf were scattered across the worn carpet. Books, framed photos, and knick-knacks had been violently thrown to the floor.
Lying near the sofa was Mrs. Higgins, the elderly babysitter. She was unconscious, breathing shallowly, a nasty bruise swelling on her temple where she had been struck.
“Leo!” Isabella screamed, tearing past Matteo, abandoning all caution. “Leo, where are you?!”
“Isabella, wait!” Matteo hissed, scanning the dark corners of the open-plan kitchen.
“Auntie Izzy?”
The small, terrified voice came from the hallway closet.
Isabella rushed over and threw open the louvered doors. Huddled in the corner, clutching a worn-out stuffed dinosaur, was six-year-old Leo. His enormous brown eyes were wide with fear, tear streaks shining on his pale cheeks.
“Leo, oh my god,” Isabella sobbed, dropping to her knees and pulling the small boy into a fierce, desperate hug. She buried her face in his soft hair, inhaling the scent of baby shampoo and fear. “You’re okay. You’re okay. I’m here.”
“He smelled like bad smoke, Auntie,” Leo whispered, burying his face in her neck. “The bad man came in. He hit Mrs. Higgins. He was looking for something.”
“I found it.”
The cold, cultured voice echoed from the shadowed archway of Isabella’s bedroom.
Isabella froze, pulling Leo tighter against her chest.
Matteo pivoted instantly, his gun leveling directly at the man stepping out of the shadows.
It was Carlo.
He looked entirely out of place in the cheap, cramped apartment, wearing his bespoke wedding tuxedo. In his left hand, he held the ornate, wooden rosary box Isabella’s mother had brought over from Italy decades ago.
In his right hand, Carlo held a heavy, silver revolver. He wasn’t pointing it at Matteo. He was pointing it directly at Isabella and the six-year-old boy trembling in her arms.
“Put the gun down, Carlo,” Matteo said, his voice dropping into a register of pure, lethal calm. “Or I will put a bullet through your eye before you can pull that trigger.”
“You always were fast, Matteo,” Carlo smiled, a sickeningly warm expression that didn’t reach his eyes. “But are you fast enough to stop my bullet from hitting the girl, or the brat? Is that a risk you’re willing to take?”
Matteo’s jaw clenched. He didn’t lower his weapon, but he didn’t fire. Carlo had the tactical advantage of collateral damage.
“You poisoned my father,” Matteo stated, the betrayal burning in every syllable. “You murdered Arthur Bennett. And you orchestrated a fake wedding to steal my legacy.”
“I corrected a mistake,” Carlo corrected smoothly, stepping further into the living room. “Lorenzo was weak. He wanted to turn the family legitimate. He wanted to play by the rules of society. I built our wealth in the shadows, and he wanted to throw it away. I simply took what I earned.”
Carlo looked down at the wooden rosary box in his hand. “And thanks to the careless words of a dead man on a tape, I now have the final piece. The real transfer papers. Once I destroy these, the forged documents I have will hold up in any court. The empire is mine.”
Carlo thumbed the brass latch of the rosary box. He flipped the lid open.
He stared inside.
The smug, victorious smile on Carlo’s face slowly melted away, replaced by utter confusion, and then, blinding rage.
He tipped the box over. A simple, cheap plastic rosary fell onto the carpet.
The box was completely empty.
“Where are they?” Carlo roared, stepping toward Isabella, raising the revolver. “Where are the papers?!”
Isabella flinched, shielding Leo with her body. “I don’t know! I never knew they were in there!”
“I took them out.”
The small, brave voice came from beneath Isabella’s chin.
Carlo stopped. Matteo’s eyes darted to the child.
Leo peeked his head out from Isabella’s embrace. He looked at Carlo, his lower lip trembling, but he held his ground. “I hid the papers. Because you looked mean.”
Carlo’s eyes narrowed into terrifying slits. He took a sudden, violent step forward and grabbed Leo by the collar of his pajama shirt, yanking the six-year-old violently out of Isabella’s arms.
Isabella screamed.
“No!” Matteo roared.
May you like
Carlo pressed the barrel of the revolver against Leo’s small temple.
“Drop the gun, Matteo,” Carlo sneered, his mask of civility completely gone, leaving only a monster behind. “Drop the gun, or the boy’s head paints this cheap apartment.”
