Chapter 3 - THE FADED SILK SCARF
The sheer force of the silence that slammed down on the dining room was suffocating.
Thirty-six elite guests sat frozen in their expensive evening wear, their eyes darting wildly between the elderly Deaf woman at the head of the table and the ruthless mafia boss standing beside her.
Adrian Moretti looked as though the floor had vanished beneath his feet.
“The man who went to prison,” Adrian started, his voice completely hollow, “was a hitman from the rival Valenti syndicate. He confessed. He died in a maximum-security cell ten years ago. It’s a closed case.”
Lydia shook her head. Her hands rose, her movements precise and unyielding.
I interpreted, matching the solemn weight in her eyes.
“She says, ‘He confessed because your uncle threatened to slaughter the hitman’s wife and children if he didn’t take the fall. It was a lie. A manufactured story to close the investigation and keep the real murderer in power.’”
Peter gripped the back of his chair, his face entirely drained of color. “Aunt Lydia, stop. Please. You’re destroying our family in front of strangers.”
“The family was destroyed thirty years ago, Peter,” I translated as Lydia signed. “I am simply turning on the lights.”
Vanessa stepped aggressively toward the table, her hands planted on her hips.
“This is senility!” Vanessa declared, looking around at the guests as if seeking their agreement. “She is a grieving, confused old woman rewriting history. Adrian, you cannot possibly believe this! Are you going to let her humiliate us based on some paranoid delusion?”
Lydia didn’t even look at Vanessa. She simply reached into the small, beaded clutch resting on her lap.
Her arthritic fingers pulled out a small, folded piece of fabric.
She set it on the table next to the brass key.
It was a faded silk scarf. Once, it might have been a vibrant emerald green, but now it was deeply stained with dark, rusted patches of dried blood. The edges were frayed, smelling faintly of cedar and decades of hidden dust.
“What is that?” Sophia, Adrian’s younger sister, asked. She had been sitting quietly near the end of the table, but now she stood up, her eyes locked on the fabric.
Lydia signed.
“She says, ‘This was found in your father’s hand the night he was killed. The police never cataloged it. Your uncle bribed the lead detective to remove it from the crime scene before the feds arrived.’”
Adrian stared at the blood-stained silk. The man who controlled a criminal empire looked suddenly like a lost, heartbroken child.
“If my uncle hid it,” Adrian asked, his voice trembling slightly, “how did you get it?”
“She says, ‘Because the detective kept it for blackmail. I bought it from his widow three months ago.’” I watched Lydia’s hands, feeling the profound sadness radiating from her. “‘This scarf is the reason I have been draining the trust. I am using the money to buy back the truth, piece by piece.’”
Vanessa let out a harsh, mocking laugh.
“A scarf?” Vanessa scoffed. “You spent millions of dollars on a dirty piece of silk? What does this prove? It could belong to anyone! A prostitute, a bystander, a waitress—”
“It belongs to my mother.”
The voice cut through the room like a gunshot.
Everyone turned.
Sophia was trembling violently. Her hands gripped the edge of the mahogany table, her knuckles white. Tears were streaming down her face, ruining her perfect makeup.
Adrian turned to his sister, his brow furrowing in deep confusion.
“Sophia, what are you talking about?” Adrian asked gently. “Mom died of a heart attack when we were kids. Two years before Dad was murdered.”
Sophia shook her head, letting out a broken, agonizing sob.
“No, Adrian,” Sophia wept, stepping closer to the table, her eyes entirely fixated on the faded green silk. “She didn’t die of a heart attack.”
I watched Lydia. The elderly woman’s eyes were filled with unspeakable sorrow. She reached out and gently laid her hand over the blood-stained fabric.
Lydia signed. I swallowed the lump in my throat and interpreted.
“She says, ‘Your mother didn’t die of a heart attack, Adrian. Your mother was murdered.’”
Adrian stumbled back a half-step, bumping into his chair. “That’s impossible. I went to her funeral. I saw the casket.”
“She says, ‘The casket was closed,’” I interpreted, my own voice wavering under the immense emotional weight of the room. “‘Your father ordered it closed. He told you she had a weak heart. But the truth is, she was trying to leave him. She was trying to take you and Sophia away from the cartel.’”
“Stop it!” Peter suddenly yelled, pointing a shaking finger at Lydia. “You swore you would take this to your grave! My father did what he had to do to protect the syndicate!”
The entire dining room froze.
Adrian slowly, terrifyingly, turned his gaze away from the scarf and locked it onto his cousin. The sorrow in his eyes instantly crystallized into pure, lethal rage.
“What did you just say, Peter?” Adrian whispered.
Peter realized his mistake instantly. He backed away, his hands raised defensively.
“Adrian, I didn’t know until last year!” Peter stammered, terrified. “My father left a confession in his safe when he passed away! He admitted he helped your father cover up your mother’s murder! And when your father felt guilty and wanted to confess to the police two years later… my father had him killed at the docks to keep him quiet!”
Gasps rippled through the room. Several guests quietly stood up, edging toward the dining room doors, desperate to escape the violent implosion of the city’s most dangerous family.
“Your father murdered both of my parents?” Adrian’s voice was devoid of all humanity.
“I didn’t do it!” Peter cried, falling back against the wall. “I altered the trust document today because I found out Lydia was buying the evidence locker! If those files go public, the feds will seize everything! I was trying to save our money, Adrian! I was trying to save you!”
Adrian took a slow, deliberate step toward his cousin.
But before he could reach him, the heavy, double oak doors of the dining room slammed shut with a deafening crash.
The heavy deadbolts clicked into place, locking us all inside.
Everyone turned in shock.
Standing by the locked doors, holding a matte-black handgun aimed directly at the ceiling, was Daniel, the family attorney.
May you like
His face was drenched in sweat, his eyes wide with a terrifying, desperate panic.
“Nobody is leaving this room,” Daniel shouted, his hands shaking violently as he aimed the weapon toward the table. “And nobody is touching that trust money until I get exactly what I came for.”
