Chapter 8 - What Was Hidden Beneath the Green Stone
Luca had worked for Vincent for twenty-six years.
That meant he had entered the Moretti household when I was two.
He knew Vincent’s schedule.
His properties.
His attorneys.
His enemies.
His habits.
And apparently he knew me.
“What did Luca do before he worked for you?”
I asked.
Vincent stared at the photograph of Luca with Renato.
“Private security.”
“For whom?”
“My father.”
“Of course.”
Vincent’s mouth tightened.
Marco brought records.
Luca had disappeared at 11:17 p.m. the night of the engagement party.
His apartment was empty.
Passport missing.
No recent card activity.
His last official assignment before joining Vincent?
Providence, Rhode Island.
My mother had lived in Providence in 1999.
I felt the floor tilt.
“Did he find us?”
Vincent didn’t answer.
Marco did.
“We think so.”
“Then why am I alive?”
Nobody knew.
That afternoon, Mara Sloan interviewed Vivian again.
This time Vivian asked to speak with me.
I refused.
Then she sent one sentence through Mara.
Ask Nora if she wants to know why I recognized the necklace.
I went.
The interview room had gray walls and bad coffee.
Vivian sat opposite me.
No designer dress.
No crowd.
No riding crop.
She looked smaller.
“I’m not apologizing,” she said.
“Then this will be short.”
“You really don’t know when to be intimidated.”
“I worked six Christmas Eve hotel shifts.”
I leaned back.
“You’re not even in my top ten.”
Her mouth twitched.
Then disappeared.
“My father showed me a painting when I was sixteen.”
“What painting?”
“Vittoria Moretti.”
My grandmother.
“She wore your necklace.”
“Why show you?”
“He said if I ever saw it outside the Moretti family, I should tell him.”
“Why?”
“He wouldn’t say.”
“And Renato?”
Her fingers tightened.
“He contacted me six months ago.”
“Before your engagement?”
“Yes.”
“You were already dating Vincent.”
“Yes.”
“What did he want?”
“Information.”
“About Vincent?”
“Mostly.”
I stared at her.
“And you gave it to him.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Vivian’s jaw tightened.
“Because he knew things about my family.”
“What things?”
She looked away.
“Things my father would rather die than make public.”
I almost laughed.
“Everyone in these families has apparently built their life around hiding one terrible thing from another terrible person.”
“You’re one of us now.”
“No.”
That came out sharper than intended.
Vivian studied me.
“You still think blood is optional.”
“I think behavior is.”
For once, she had no answer.
I touched the locket.
“What does Renato want with this?”
“I don’t know.”
“Lie again and I leave.”
“I don’t know exactly.”
“Better.”
“He said the green stone opened something.”
My mother’s letter.
Never remove it.
When I returned to Belladonna House, Eleanor had already arranged for a conservator.
Not a jeweler.
No one touched the necklace except me.
Under magnification, we discovered the stone had a nearly invisible seam.
I remembered my mother pressing the side of her sewing box.
I pressed the left edge.
Nothing.
Right.
Nothing.
Then the top.
Click.
The stone lifted.
Beneath it was a cavity no larger than a fingernail.
Inside lay a tiny brass key.
And a rolled strip of paper.
Vincent used tweezers to unfold it.
Four characters.
B.H. 317
“Belladonna House,” Marco said.
“What’s 317?”
Vincent shook his head.
“There is no Room 317.”
The mansion had three floors.
But no room numbers.
Rosa entered carrying coffee.
She saw the paper.
Stopped.
“What?”
I asked.
She put the tray down.
“Your grandmother numbered everything.”
“Rooms?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“Her ledgers.”
Vincent turned.
“What ledgers?”
Rosa looked at him.
“The books Salvatore ordered burned after Vittoria died.”
“Why?”
“Because your mother kept records.”
“Of what?”
Rosa gave him a tired look.
“Everything men assumed women did not understand.”
Financial transactions.
Property transfers.
Political favors.
Debts.
Promises.
Names.
Vittoria had written them all down.
“Where?”
Vincent asked.
Rosa shook her head.
“I don’t know.”
I held up the key.
“Something survived.”
Rosa looked toward the hallway leading to the chapel.
Then at me.
“Elena used to disappear into the chapel with your grandmother.”
Vincent was already moving.
The chapel stood at the oldest end of Belladonna House.
Small.
Dark wood.
Stained glass.
No one had used it regularly since Vittoria died.
We searched for nearly an hour.
Nothing.
Then I noticed the altar.
A black enamel flower.
With a green center.
The same design as my locket.
I pressed it.
A narrow panel opened beneath the altar.
Inside was a keyhole.
The brass key fit.
Vincent looked at me.
“You open it.”
I turned the key.
A drawer slid outward.
Inside were three leather ledgers.
A cassette tape.
And an envelope.
My name was written across it.
Not Nora Rossi.
Not Nora Moretti.
Nora Elena DeMarco-Moretti.
My hands shook.
I reached for the cassette.
A label had been written in my mother’s handwriting.
FOR MY DAUGHTER — IF RENATO FINDS HER
Vincent found an old player in the sacristy.
We inserted the tape.
Static.
Then a woman breathed.
And for the first time in eleven years, I heard my mother’s voice.
“Nora.”
I stopped breathing.
“My beautiful girl.”
Tears came before I could stop them.
“If you are hearing this, then I failed to keep the past buried.”
A pause.
May you like
Then:
“And Renato has come back for you.”
