Chapter 2 - THE BLOODSTAINED POCKET WATCH
The grand dining room of the Moretti mansion fell so quiet I could hear the rain lashing against the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Thirty-eight guests sat paralyzed in their velvet chairs.
At the far end of the long mahogany table, Edith Bell remained standing. She was a fragile woman in a faded blue dress, but her posture was rigid, her chin lifted with a defiance that seemed to terrify the matriarch of the family.
“I didn't come here to be thanked,” Edith repeated, her voice cracking but echoing clearly across the crystal and silver. “I came because you promised me the truth, Victoria.”
Victoria Moretti, the eighty-year-old iron pillar of the family, closed her eyes. Her hands trembled violently in her lap.
She couldn't look at Edith.
Adrian Moretti, the thirty-five-year-old mafia boss who had ruled the family since his father’s death, slowly stood up.
He didn't look angry. He looked entirely caught off guard.
“Truth?” Adrian asked, his dark eyes shifting between his mother and the elderly woman. “What truth, Mrs. Bell? My mother invited you here tonight to honor your husband’s service to this family.”
Edith let out a bitter, hollow laugh.
“Honor?” she whispered. “Your family dragged my husband’s name through the mud for thirty-two years. You called him a traitor. A coward who sold out your father to a rival syndicate.”
Richard Moretti, Adrian’s uncle, slammed his fist onto the table.
“Because he was a traitor!” Richard shouted, his face turning a deep, angry red. “Arthur Bell gave the Lucchese family our shipping routes! He was killed in the crossfire of his own betrayal!”
Richard gestured aggressively to the security guards standing by the double doors.
“Remove this woman immediately. She is disturbing Victoria’s birthday.”
Two men in dark suits stepped forward.
“Stop,” Adrian commanded.
He didn't raise his voice, but the sheer authority in his tone froze the guards in their tracks.
Adrian looked at Edith.
“You said my mother promised you the truth. What did you bring with you tonight, Edith?”
Edith reached into the deep pocket of her faded cardigan.
Her hand was shaking as she pulled out a small, circular object wrapped in a worn linen handkerchief. She slowly unfolded the cloth and placed the object on the pristine white tablecloth.
It was a heavy, gold pocket watch.
Even from where I stood holding the silver bell, I could see the dark, rusted stains coating the intricate gold casing.
Old blood.
Victoria let out a shattered gasp and covered her mouth.
“My husband’s watch,” Adrian said, his brow furrowing in deep confusion. “My father lost that watch the night he was ambushed thirty-two years ago.”
“Your father didn't lose it,” Edith said, her voice rising with years of suppressed agony. “Arthur had this in his pocket when the police brought his body to the morgue. They let me keep it because they thought it belonged to him.”
Vanessa Laurent, Adrian’s beautiful and ruthless fiancée, scoffed loudly.
“So your husband was a traitor and a thief,” Vanessa sneered, adjusting her diamond necklace. “He stole Carlo Moretti’s watch before he died. This proves nothing except that he was greedy.”
“Vanessa, shut your mouth,” Adrian snapped without looking at her.
Vanessa recoiled as if she had been slapped.
Adrian walked slowly down the length of the table, his eyes fixed on the bloodstained gold watch. He picked it up gently, turning it over in his large hands.
“If Arthur stole this, why would you bring it here?” Adrian asked Edith gently.
“Open the back casing,” Edith whispered.
Adrian pressed his thumb against the small latch. The gold back popped open.
Inside, tucked behind the gears, was a small, folded piece of paper. It was yellowed with age, the ink faded but still legible.
Adrian carefully unfolded it. He read the words in silence.
As he read, the color completely drained from his face.
He looked up at his mother.
“Mom,” Adrian whispered, his voice laced with horror. “This is your handwriting.”
Victoria began to cry silently, the tears slipping down her wrinkled cheeks.
“What does it say?” Richard demanded, stepping forward, a genuine panic finally breaking through his arrogant facade.
Adrian ignored his uncle. He read the note aloud to the silent room.
“Arthur, please take this watch as collateral. Get me out of this house tonight. Carlo knows I’m leaving him.”
The guests gasped collectively.
The narrative they had believed for thirty-two years shattered in an instant. Arthur Bell wasn't a traitor who sold out the mafia boss. He was a loyal driver trying to help the boss’s abused wife escape.
And Carlo Moretti hadn't been ambushed by rivals.
“My husband didn't betray Carlo,” Edith wept, pointing a trembling finger at Victoria. “Carlo murdered my husband for trying to help you! And you let the world believe Arthur was a rat to save your own reputation!”
Victoria shook her head violently, sobbing.
“No! No, Edith, you don't understand! Carlo didn't kill Arthur!”
Richard stepped aggressively toward his sister-in-law. “Victoria, stop talking right now!”
“No!” Victoria cried, finally finding her voice. “I won't carry this anymore! Carlo didn't know we were leaving! He was in Chicago that night!”
Adrian gripped the back of an empty chair, his knuckles turning white.
“If Dad was in Chicago,” Adrian asked slowly, “who killed Arthur?”
Victoria looked directly at Richard.
But before she could speak, a small voice echoed from the grand staircase in the hallway.
“Emily?”
I turned around.
Standing in the doorway was Leo, Adrian’s eight-year-old son. He was wearing his pajamas, rubbing his sleepy eyes.
But what made my heart stop was what he was dragging behind him across the polished marble floor.
May you like
It was a heavy, moth-eaten navy blue wool coat.
“Emily,” the little boy murmured, looking up at me. “I found the heavy coat you were looking for. The one Vanessa told the gardener to burn in the incinerator this afternoon.”
