Chapter 6 - THE TARNISHED ROSARY
The tiny gold necklace caught the dim hallway light, glittering against the tarnished silver of the open crucifix.
I stared at it, completely paralyzed. My mother was a devout, simple woman who lived paycheck to paycheck. She had never owned a piece of solid gold jewelry in her life. Why would she hide such an expensive, delicate thing inside her most prized religious possession?
“What is that?” I whispered, my voice shaking so badly I could barely form the words.
Vincent didn’t answer immediately. He stared down at the small gold necklace nestled in his massive palm. His breathing grew shallow, and the muscles in his jaw locked tight.
He reached out with a thick finger and gently pulled the necklace from the hidden compartment. Dangling from the delicate gold chain was a small, cylindrical pendant. It looked like a tiny, ornate perfume vial, capped with a twisting gold lid.
“This doesn't belong to your mother, Anna,” Vincent said, his voice hollow. “This belongs to my family. I haven't seen it in ten years.”
“What is it?” I asked, stepping closer, terrified of the answer.
“It’s a locket my father had custom-made in Italy,” Vincent explained, holding the vial up to the light. “He gave it to my mother. But she didn't keep perfume in it.”
Vincent’s thumb gripped the tiny gold cap. With a slow, deliberate twist, he unscrewed the top of the vial.
He tipped the pendant over his open palm.
A small, tightly rolled cylinder of heavy parchment paper slid out of the gold casing.
Vincent unrolled the tiny scrap of paper. I leaned in, my heart pounding in my ears.
It wasn't a note. It wasn't a letter.
It was a perfectly clear, miniature rubber stamp impression.
The ink was dried and faded, but the sweeping, elegant cursive was unmistakable.
It was Carlo Moretti’s signature. The exact same signature that had been used to authorize the theft of Dorothy’s pension funds eight months ago.
“My God,” I gasped, clapping a hand over my mouth.
“It’s a master forgery stamp,” Vincent said, his voice vibrating with a terrifying, suppressed rage. He looked from the scrap of paper to the bloody wool coat, and finally to me.
“Your mother was a maid in this house ten years ago,” Vincent said, piecing the puzzle together aloud. “She must have found this gold necklace hidden somewhere. She opened it, realized someone had a perfect forgery of the Boss’s signature, and knew they were stealing from the family. She hid the necklace inside her rosary to keep it safe so she could take it to my father.”
“But she never made it to him,” I choked out, tears spilling down my cheeks again. “She was killed on her way home that night.”
“It wasn't a drunk driver, Anna,” Vincent said softly, his eyes filled with profound sorrow for my loss. “Whoever owned this forgery stamp ran her down to get it back. But they couldn't find it on her body, because she had hidden it too well inside the cross.”
I leaned against the wall, my legs feeling like they were made of lead. The tragic accident I had mourned for a decade was a calculated, cold-blooded murder.
“But how did Mrs. Higgins get the rosary?” I asked, wiping my eyes frantically.
“Mrs. Higgins packed up your mother’s locker after she died,” Vincent realized. “She must have found the rosary and kept it as a memorial to her friend. Eight months ago, Mrs. Higgins finally discovered the hidden compartment. She realized the same person who killed your mother was using the forged signature again to steal the pension funds.”
Vincent’s eyes darkened, turning entirely black with fury.
“Mrs. Higgins confronted the killer,” Vincent growled. “And they murdered her, shoved her bloody coat in the back of this closet, and threw her body where it would never be found.”
“Who, Mr. Moretti?” I demanded, a sudden, blinding anger replacing my grief. The fear of the mafia boss evaporated, replaced by a desperate need for justice for my mother. “Victoria? Michael?”
Vincent shook his head slowly. He looked down at the tiny gold vial.
“Victoria and Michael are greedy, stupid children playing a dangerous game,” Vincent said coldly. “But they didn't kill your mother ten years ago. Victoria was in high school, and Michael was a reckless teenager in boarding school.”
Vincent closed his fist around the gold necklace, the forgery stamp, and the rosary.
“There is only one person in this family who had access to my mother’s jewelry ten years ago,” Vincent said, his voice dropping into a deadly, quiet register. “Only one person who had the financial authority to steal, and the ruthless cowardice to run over an innocent maid in the dead of night.”
Vincent looked up, his eyes locking onto mine.
“Uncle Raymond.”
The realization hit me like a freight train. Raymond’s weeping, pathetic act in the dining room—claiming he was blackmailed, claiming someone dug up the grave—it was all a masterful performance to play the victim when he was caught red-handed.
“He dug up his own brother’s grave,” I whispered in absolute horror. “He stole the pocket watch himself to create a fake blackmailer.”
“He forged the authorizations using the stamp he made ten years ago,” Vincent confirmed, turning toward the staircase. “And when Victoria and Michael stumbled onto the missing money, he let them think they were the ones controlling the theft, while he skimmed the majority of the fortune right under their noses.”
Vincent didn't walk down the stairs. He descended them like an executioner marching to the gallows.
I followed closely behind him, my blood boiling. The man who had smiled at me for four years, the man who patted my shoulder and asked how I was doing, was the man who had brutally run over my mother and left her to die in the street.
We reached the main floor. The hallway was empty. The guards were either outside securing the perimeter or in the basement dealing with Victoria.
Vincent marched straight toward the massive double doors of the dining room. He reached out and violently twisted the brass deadbolt, throwing the doors open.
The dining room was empty.
The mahogany table was cleared. The ledger was gone.
And Uncle Raymond was nowhere to be seen.
“He ran,” Vincent snarled, drawing a heavy black pistol from the holster at his waist.
Suddenly, a loud, echoing crash came from the far end of the mansion, near the private library.
Vincent didn't hesitate. He sprinted down the hall, his gun raised, moving with a speed and lethal grace I had never seen before. I ran after him, adrenaline masking my fear.
We burst through the oak doors of the library.
Uncle Raymond was standing behind the massive cherry-wood desk. The heavy oil painting of Carlo Moretti that normally hung on the wall had been torn down and thrown to the floor. Behind it, a steel wall safe was hanging wide open.
Raymond had a large leather duffel bag slung over his shoulder, stuffed with stacks of hundred-dollar bills.
But he wasn't looking at the money. He was frantically flipping through the pages of a thick, worn, leather-bound diary he had just pulled from the safe.
“Drop the book, Raymond,” Vincent commanded, aiming the pistol squarely at his uncle’s chest.
Raymond froze. He slowly looked up, his face pale and slick with sweat. He looked at the gun, then at Vincent, and finally at me standing in the doorway.
He knew it was over.
But instead of begging for his life, Raymond let out a bitter, cracking laugh.
“You think you’ve figured it all out, don't you, Vincent?” Raymond wheezed, clutching the leather diary to his chest like a shield. “You think you caught the bad guy.”
“I know you killed Anna’s mother,” Vincent said, his voice echoing with absolute finality. “I know you killed Mrs. Higgins. And I know you’ve been bleeding this family dry for a decade.”
“I took what I was owed!” Raymond screamed, spit flying from his lips. “Carlo treated me like a glorified accountant! He built an empire and left me counting his pennies!”
Raymond took a step back, holding the heavy leather diary up in the air.
“But the joke is on you, Vincent,” Raymond sneered, a wicked, triumphant smile twisting his face. “You think I stole the pension fund? The pension fund was empty! It’s been empty for six years!”
Vincent’s eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?”
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Raymond threw the leather diary onto the desk. It landed with a heavy thud, sliding across the polished wood until it stopped right in front of Vincent.
“Answer one,” Raymond laughed, backing toward the French doors leading to the garden. “I didn't steal the millions in the pension fund. Open two: Open your father’s diary, Vincent. Look at what he really did with the Moretti fortune before he died.”
