Chapter 10 - [THE SECRET IN THE LOCKET]
I stared at the tiny, faded photograph inside the gold locket.
My breath caught in my throat.
“That’s my father,” I whispered, my thumb brushing over the miniature image of Harold Bennett’s smiling face.
Dominic leaned in closer, looking at the photograph with me. His brow furrowed in confusion.
“Your father?” Dominic asked softly. “Are you sure? Salvatore said they knew each other, but this...”
This was more than just a jeweler and a client.
In the photograph, my father wasn't wearing his jeweler’s apron. He was wearing a sharp suit. Lucia was wearing a beautiful summer dress. They were standing closely together, her hand resting intimately on his chest.
They looked incredibly happy. They looked in love.
“When was this taken?” I asked, my voice trembling.
Dominic gently took the locket from my hands. He examined the tiny photograph under the sunlight pouring into the sunroom.
“There’s a date on the back of the picture,” Dominic said, carefully prying the small photo out of the gold casing with his fingernail.
He flipped the tiny square over.
“August 1988,” Dominic read aloud.
I did the math in my head.
“My parents divorced in 1987,” I said slowly. “I was two years old. My mother moved to California, and my dad stayed here to run the shop.”
Dominic looked at me. “My parents were married in 1985. But my father went to prison for racketeering from 1987 to 1989. My mother was alone in Chicago during that time.”
The realization hit us both simultaneously.
While Vincent Caruso was locked in a federal penitentiary, his lonely, terrified young wife had found comfort in the arms of the kind, quiet watchmaker who repaired her jewelry.
“They had an affair,” Dominic whispered, staring at the photograph.
Answer one. Open two.
My father didn't just hide the fifty-million-dollar microdot out of a sense of moral duty. He did it to protect the woman he loved.
But a darker, more terrifying thought suddenly blossomed in my mind.
I looked at Dominic.
“Dominic,” I said, my voice barely a breath. “When were you born?”
Dominic froze.
The color drained from his face.
He looked down at the photograph. Then he looked at me.
“May 1989,” Dominic said. His voice was completely hollow.
Nine months after August 1988.
The silence in the sunroom was deafening. The only sound was the distant, cheerful melody of Julian pressing piano keys in the next room.
Dominic stumbled backward, collapsing into an armchair. He buried his face in his hands.
“Oh my God,” Dominic breathed. “Vincent wasn't my father.”
I sat paralyzed on the sofa.
If Vincent Caruso wasn't Dominic’s biological father...
Then Harold Bennett was.
“We’re...” I started to say the word, but my throat closed up.
We’re siblings.
Half-siblings.
The man I had fallen in love with. The man who had kissed me in the ruined office. The man who had just invited me to build a life with him.
He was my brother.
A wave of absolute nausea washed over me. I stood up, backing away from the sofa.
“Nora, wait,” Dominic said, dropping his hands. His gray eyes were wide with panic.
“I have to go,” I choked out.
I turned and ran out of the sunroom.
I didn't stop. I ran up the grand staircase, down the long hallway, and burst into my new bedroom in the East Wing.
I slammed the door shut, locking it behind me, and collapsed onto the edge of the bed, sobbing uncontrollably.
It was a cruel, twisted joke of fate. We had survived the mafia. We had survived murder attempts. And now, our own blood was tearing us apart.
An hour passed.
I had packed a small suitcase. I couldn't stay here. I couldn't look at him every day knowing the truth, knowing what we almost became.
There was a soft knock at my bedroom door.
“Nora.”
It was Salvatore.
I wiped my eyes, took a deep breath, and unlocked the door.
The old jeweler stood in the hallway, looking deeply sorrowful.
“Dominic told me,” Salvatore said quietly. “May I come in?”
I nodded, stepping aside.
Salvatore walked into the room and saw my suitcase on the bed. He sighed, a heavy, tired sound.
“You are making a mistake, Nora,” Salvatore said.
“A mistake?” I cried softly. “Mr. Russo, he’s my brother! I can’t stay here! It’s wrong. It’s sick.”
Salvatore shook his head slowly.
“He is not your brother, Nora.”
I stopped packing. I turned to look at him.
“What do you mean?” I asked. “The dates align perfectly. My father and Lucia were together when Dominic was conceived.”
“Yes, they were,” Salvatore agreed. “Lucia loved Harold deeply. He was the only true kindness she ever knew.”
Salvatore reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a folded, yellowed piece of paper.
“But Harold was not Dominic’s father,” Salvatore said firmly.
He handed the paper to me.
May you like
“Because Harold Bennett was incapable of having children.”
TITLE: THE TRUTH IN THE BLOOD
