Chapter 3 - The Ashes of a Stolen Past
The banquet hall fell so silent I could hear the rain lashing against the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Dominic’s grip on his phone turned his knuckles white. “What photograph, Anthony?”
“The hospital photo,” Anthony’s voice cracked through the speaker, frantic and breathless. “The one from the night we were born. Dom, you have to get out of the house. Vanessa isn’t who she—”
The line went dead.
Dominic lowered the phone, his face a mask of terrifying calm. He didn’t yell. He didn’t throw the phone. He simply looked at Vanessa.
“Lock the doors,” Dominic said quietly.
Instantly, four of Dominic’s suited men stepped in front of the grand oak exits. The remaining dinner guests shrank back in their chairs, realizing they were suddenly hostages in a Mafia family dispute.
Vanessa’s carefully constructed elegance completely unraveled. She clutched her red silk skirt, backing away until she hit the edge of the dining table.
“Dominic, darling, Anthony is lying,” she stammered, her eyes darting toward the locked doors. “He stole the trust money to pay his gambling debts. He’s trying to pit us against each other!”
“He didn’t take money, Vanessa,” Dominic said, stepping toward her. “He took a letter from my dead mother. A letter you clearly read.”
I stood paralyzed near Frank, my serving tray still in my hands. I noticed something no one else did. Vanessa wasn’t just backing away; she was inching her hand toward the small, beaded designer purse resting near the centerpiece.
“Sir,” I blurted out before I could stop myself. “Her purse.”
Vanessa shot me a look of absolute venom and lunged for the bag. But Dominic was faster. He caught her wrist, easily prying the small purse from her fingers.
He tipped it upside down over the table.
Lipstick, a compact mirror, and a set of car keys clattered against the china. But two other objects caught everyone’s attention.
The first was a heavy, tarnished gold pocket watch.
The second was a jagged, half-burned piece of a photograph.
Frank let out a strangled gasp. “Where did you get that watch?”
Dominic picked it up. He turned it over. Engraved on the back were the words: To Lorenzo, the true King of Chicago.
Lorenzo Marchesi. The ruthless head of the rival syndicate that had nearly destroyed Dominic’s family twenty years ago. Lorenzo was dead, killed in a warehouse fire.
“Why do you have Lorenzo Marchesi’s watch?” Dominic demanded, his voice dropping to a dangerous register.
Vanessa’s lips trembled, but a cold, mocking smile slowly spread across her face. The panic was gone.
“Because it belongs to my family,” Vanessa said, straightening her posture. “I’m a Marchesi, Dominic. Lorenzo was my uncle.”
A collective gasp echoed from the guests. Frank gripped the edge of the table, his face ashen.
“You spent a year in my bed,” Dominic whispered, absolute disgust in his eyes. “You kissed my daughter. All to get close to me?”
“To get back what belongs to us,” Vanessa spat. She pointed a manicured finger at Frank. “Your precious, humble mechanic father didn’t just fix cars, Dominic. Ask him what he did thirty-nine years ago! Ask him who you really are!”
Dominic slowly picked up the half-burned piece of the photograph. It was charred around the edges, but the image was clear. It showed two newborn babies lying in a hospital crib. One baby had a distinct, star-shaped birthmark on his left shoulder.
Dominic instinctively touched his own left shoulder beneath his suit jacket. He had that exact birthmark.
But the name tag taped to the front of the crib didn't say Moretti.
It said: Baby Boy Marchesi.
“Dad,” Dominic breathed, turning to Frank. “What is this?”
Frank was weeping now, his hands covering his face. “I’m sorry, son. I’m so sorry.”
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Before Frank could explain, the crystal chandelier above us flickered. Then, with a heavy thud that shook the floorboards, all the lights in the mansion completely died.
In the pitch black, the front windows shattered inward, and Rosie began to scream.
