Chapter 5 - THE BROKEN LOOP
My feet felt like lead as I walked back into the dining room.
Dominic was standing by the large windows, his broad shoulders tense, staring out into the dark estate grounds. Michael was sitting at the table, his head buried in his hands. Emily sat quietly on the edge of her chair, her small legs swinging nervously.
When the heavy doors clicked shut behind me, Dominic turned.
He didn’t look at the coat draped over my arm. His eyes fell immediately onto the blood-stained silver rosary clutched in my left hand, and the folded ivory stationery in my right.
“Where did you get that?” Dominic’s voice cracked. For the first time in seventeen years, the untouchable mafia boss sounded completely broken.
“They were in Vanessa’s coat pocket, Mr. Romano,” I said softly.
Vanessa stepped up beside him, placing a gentle, falsely comforting hand on his arm. “Dominic, darling, I wanted to protect you from this. I really did. I was going to take this secret to my grave to spare your feelings.”
Dominic pulled his arm away from her as if her touch burned. He walked over to me and gently took the rosary. His thumb traced the blood-stained pearl beads. A profound, unbearable grief washed over his face.
Then, he reached for the ivory paper.
“Don’t read it, Mr. Romano,” I pleaded quietly. “Please.”
But he took it. He unfolded the thick paper.
I watched his eyes scan the handwritten lines. I didn’t need to read it to know what it said; the devastation on Dominic’s face told me everything. His chest heaved. He closed his eyes, gripping the edge of the dining table to steady himself.
Answer One. The letter confirmed Vanessa’s twisted story. Catherine had supposedly given up. She had asked for an end to her suffering, begging to be released from the dark, violent world of the Romano family.
Open Two. If Catherine asked for death, who actually provided the poison? And who was the woman with the butterfly tattoo?
“She hated me,” Dominic whispered, his voice completely hollow. “At the end… she hated the life I gave her.”
“She didn’t hate you, Dom,” Michael said from the table, his voice thick with guilt. “She was sick. She wasn’t thinking straight.”
“Daddy?”
Emily hopped down from her chair and walked over to him. She looked up, her large brown eyes filled with concern as she saw the tears shimmering in her father’s eyes.
“Daddy, why are you sad?”
Dominic quickly wiped his face, trying to hide his grief from his daughter. He hastily tried to fold the letter, to hide it away, but it slipped from his trembling fingers and fluttered to the marble floor.
Emily bent down and picked it up.
“Emily, don’t—” Vanessa started, taking a step forward.
But Emily was already looking at the handwriting. She stared at it for a long time. The room held its collective breath. A child reading her mother’s supposed suicide note was a cruelty I couldn’t bear to witness.
But Emily didn’t cry. Instead, she frowned.
Reversal.
“This is Mommy’s paper,” Emily said slowly. “But this isn’t Mommy’s writing.”
Dominic froze. “What do you mean, Em?”
Emily walked over to the table and laid the letter flat under the light of the chandelier. “Look at the T’s. The person who wrote this just drew a straight line across.”
She looked up at her father. “Mommy always crossed her T’s with a little loop. She taught me how to do it when we practiced cursive. She said straight lines were too harsh. She never, ever wrote a T like this.”
I rushed to the table and looked. The child was absolutely right. The handwriting was a brilliant forgery, mimicking Catherine’s elegant slant perfectly—but the subtle, personal loops on the T’s were missing.
The letter was a fake.
Dominic’s grief instantly vaporized, replaced by a volcanic, terrifying rage. He turned slowly toward Vanessa.
“You forged this,” he said, his voice lethal.
“No!” Vanessa screamed, backing away. “Dominic, the child is making things up! It’s real! Catherine gave it to me!”
“My daughter doesn’t lie,” Dominic roared, the sound shaking the very crystals above us. He grabbed the letter and tore it in half, throwing it at Vanessa’s feet. “You forged my wife’s suicide note to cover up a murder!”
“It wasn’t me!” Vanessa shrieked, pointing frantically at Michael. “Ask him! Ask your precious brother! Ask him why he’s been paying off the Moretti family for three years!”
Michael’s head snapped up, his face draining of all color.
Before Michael could speak, Emily reached into the pocket of her dress for the third time.
“Uncle Michael?” she asked quietly. “If you didn’t do anything bad… why did I find this under the seat of your car yesterday?”
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Emily held out her small hand. Dangling from her fingers was a heavy, silver charm bracelet.
My blood ran cold. It was the bracelet Catherine was buried with.
