Chapter 6 - THE GRAVEYARD ENCOUNTER
The rain came down in relentless, freezing sheets, turning the ancient stone pathways of St. Jude’s Cemetery into slick, muddy rivers.
I stood under a large black umbrella, clutching the gold signet ring tight in my palm. The iron gates of the cemetery loomed behind me, silent sentinels in the dark.
Luca had refused to let me go alone.
He and Marco were currently hidden in the shadows of the mausoleums twenty yards away, armed and watching my back. But he had agreed to let me stand at the meeting point—an old, crumbling angel statue in the center of the graveyard—by myself.
Midnight struck, a distant church bell echoing through the storm.
“He’s not coming,” I whispered to myself, shivering as the damp cold seeped through my heavy coat.
Then, a shadow detached itself from the line of weeping willow trees near the east wall.
The figure walked slowly, with a slight limp, moving deliberately toward the angel statue.
As he stepped into the pale glow of the single streetlamp illuminating the path, my breath caught in my throat.
It was the man from the photograph. Older now, his dark hair threaded with silver, deep lines etched around his eyes, but undeniably the same man.
My father. Anthony Bellini.
He stopped a few feet away from me.
For a long moment, neither of us spoke. The rain beat aggressively against my umbrella, filling the heavy silence.
He looked at my face, tracing my features with his eyes as if memorizing a map he had lost decades ago.
“You have her nose,” he said quietly, his voice deep and raspy. “Isabella’s nose.”
I swallowed hard, trying to keep my voice steady.
“You left the ring,” I said, holding out my hand to show him the gold band resting on my palm.
“I had to make sure you’d come,” Anthony replied, stepping closer, safely under the edge of my umbrella.
He smelled of tobacco, rain, and old leather.
“Why didn’t you come for us?” I asked, the anger and hurt of twenty-eight years suddenly bubbling to the surface. “If you survived the crash, why did you leave Isabella in that hospital? Why did you leave me with a nurse?”
Anthony closed his eyes, a look of profound agony crossing his weathered face.
“I didn’t know she was locked in the asylum, Natalie,” he whispered. “My father told me Isabella died in childbirth. He told me the baby died too. When I woke up in the hospital in Rome after the crash, I thought I had lost everything. It took me three years to uncover the truth—that my father had ordered the hit on me, and that the nurse had taken you.”
“So you found us in Chicago,” I said, remembering the photograph. “You found me when I was six. Why didn’t you take me then?”
“Because Maria, the nurse, was a good woman,” Anthony said fiercely. “She didn’t just take my father’s money. She used it to build a life for you. She loved you like her own. If I had stepped into your life then, my father would have found out I was alive. He would have hunted us both down. I stayed in the shadows to protect you. I watched you grow up from a distance.”
Tears blurred my vision. “But you let me believe she died of cancer three years ago. You said in the note you would tell me what really happened to her.”
Anthony’s jaw clenched. The sorrow in his eyes hardened into cold, absolute fury.
“She didn’t die of cancer, Natalie. The doctors were paid off to falsify the autopsy report.”
My stomach dropped. “What do you mean?”
“My father found her,” Anthony said, his voice shaking with anger. “Vincent finally tracked Maria down in New Orleans. He couldn’t touch her openly because of the blackmail documents she hid, so he had his private doctor slip a slow-acting poison into her medication. She didn’t succumb to cancer. She was murdered.”
I stumbled backward, the umbrella slipping from my grasp.
The rain instantly soaked my hair, but I couldn't feel the cold.
My mother—the woman who had sacrificed everything to raise me, who had loved me unconditionally—had been murdered by my own grandfather.
“No,” I sobbed, covering my mouth. “No, that’s not true.”
“It is,” a new voice echoed from the darkness.
Anthony instantly reached inside his coat, drawing a heavy black pistol, aiming it toward the shadows.
Luca stepped out from behind a large marble tombstone, his hands raised to show he wasn’t holding a weapon.
Marco stayed hidden in the darkness behind him.
Anthony kept his gun trained on Luca’s chest.
“Put it down, Anthony,” Luca said calmly. “I’m not here to fight you. I’m here to help her.”
Anthony sneered, his grip on the gun tightening. “A Moretti offering help. The last time a Moretti offered me help, your father tried to have Isabella forcefully aborted.”
“My father is dead,” Luca said, his voice firm. “I am the head of this family now. And I’m telling you, we know the truth. Isabella is free. She’s at my house right now.”
The gun in Anthony’s hand wavered.
“Isabella?” Anthony whispered, his tough facade crumbling instantly. “She’s alive?”
“Vincent locked her in a psychiatric ward for twenty-eight years,” Luca confirmed grimly. “We got her out tonight. She’s safe. And she’s waiting to see her daughter.”
Anthony lowered the gun, his chest heaving as tears finally broke through his stoic expression.
He looked at me, his eyes filled with a desperate, heartbreaking hope.
“She’s alive,” he repeated, almost to himself.
Suddenly, the sharp crack of a gunshot shattered the graveyard silence.
The bullet struck the stone angel directly between Anthony and me, raining sharp pieces of marble over us.
“Get down!” Luca roared, drawing his weapon and diving behind a tombstone.
Anthony tackled me into the mud, shielding my body with his own as a second shot rang out.
“Marco!” Luca yelled into the dark. “Where is it coming from?”
“South gate, Boss!” Marco yelled back, returning fire toward the entrance. “We’ve got three shooters!”
Anthony pulled me behind the base of the angel statue, his eyes scanning the darkness.
“Vincent’s men,” Anthony gritted his teeth, checking the magazine of his pistol. “He knew I would contact you when the secret broke. He used you as bait to draw me out.”
“We have to get to the SUV,” Luca yelled over the sound of gunfire. “It’s armored. Anthony, cover me!”
Anthony nodded. He popped out from behind the statue, laying down suppressive fire while Luca sprinted across the open path, diving behind a large mausoleum closer to the gate.
But as Luca moved, one of the shooters stepped out from behind a tree, aiming directly at him.
Before I could scream a warning, a sudden, blinding pair of headlights cut through the darkness of the cemetery road.
A black sedan smashed through the rusted iron side gate, tires squealing on the wet pavement, and slammed violently into the shooter, pinning him against the stone wall.
The two remaining gunmen turned, firing wildly at the car.
The driver’s door flew open.
Stepping out into the rain, holding a massive shotgun with both hands, was a woman wearing a soaked red silk gown.
Vanessa Bellini pumped the shotgun and fired blindly toward the remaining gunmen, screaming in rage.
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“Get away from my brother!” she shrieked.
I stared in shock as Vanessa, the woman who had tormented me for years, reloaded the weapon with trembling hands, providing the exact cover we needed to escape.
