Chapter 10
Margaret Hale was sixty-two.
She had Warren’s eyes and none of his stillness.
She arrived at Saint Helena by choice.
No escort.
No visible weapon.
A dark coat.
Gray hair.
Scar along one side of her jaw.
Preston saw her from across the chapel.
He stopped.
Margaret did too.
Twenty years passed across both faces.
“Preston.”
He did not answer.
She stepped closer.
“I’m sorry.”
He laughed.
One broken sound.
“You don’t get to begin there.”
Margaret stopped.
Good.
She understood.
Preston looked at her.
“You were alive.”
“Yes.”
“You sent letters.”
“Yes.”
“He hid them.”
Warren stood near the altar.
Margaret did not look at him.
Preston continued.
“You came back.”
“Yes.”
“You left again.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Margaret’s voice shook.
“Because Samuel found me.”
Preston’s anger returned.
“And you let me stay with him.”
She finally looked at Warren.
“I thought Warren would protect you if somebody else threatened you.”
Preston laughed.
“Excellent judgment.”
Margaret accepted the cruelty.
“I know.”
Giulietta watched.
This reunion was not hers to soften.
Margaret looked at Preston.
“I also thought you hated me.”
“You never gave me the chance.”
“Yes.”
Silence.
Then Preston asked:
“Did he use the golf club on you?”
Warren’s face hardened.
Margaret looked at her son.
“Yes.”
Preston closed his eyes.
“Did I ever see?”
“Yes.”
He almost staggered.
A childhood memory returning.
His father shouting.
Mother on the floor.
Metal striking wood.
Not her body perhaps.
Enough.
Preston whispered:
“I used it on Giulietta.”
Margaret looked toward the bridal gown.
Then at him.
Her face broke.
Preston continued:
“I became him.”
Margaret said:
“You copied him.”
Warren turned.
She ignored him.
“That is not the same as being condemned to remain him.”
Giulietta looked at Preston.
Important.
But not forgiveness.
Margaret turned to her.
“I owe you an apology.”
“You owe my mother truth.”
Margaret nodded.
“Yes.”
“Is Lucia alive?”
Silence.
Giulietta’s heart stopped.
Margaret looked toward Cesare.
Then Warren.
Then Giulietta.
“I don’t know.”
Rage flashed.
Giulietta hated the answer because it was honest.
“When did you last see her?”
“Ten years ago.”
Everyone froze.
Giulietta’s voice broke.
“Ten?”
“Yes.”
Seven years after the fire.
“Where?”
“Boston.”
“What was she doing?”
“Hiding.”
“From who?”
“Samuel.”
“Alessandro?”
“Dead by then.”
“Dad?”
Margaret hesitated.
“No.”
Giulietta stared.
“Why didn’t she come home?”
Margaret’s expression softened painfully.
“Because she believed Vittorio had become dangerous again.”
“No.”
Cesare whispered:
“He had.”
Giulietta turned.
Her uncle looked away.
After the war slowed, Vittorio had grown colder over the years.
By the time Giulietta was fifteen, he trusted almost no one.
Maybe Lucia watched from afar.
Saw something she could not return to.
Margaret continued.
“Lucia knew Vittorio chose her that night.”
“She also knew he kept using the empire the war created.”
Giulietta swallowed.
“She hated him?”
“No.”
“That would have been easier.”
Margaret looked at Giulietta.
“She loved him and no longer trusted him.”
Silence.
That sentence stayed.
Love and trust.
Different things.
Giulietta thought of Preston.
The ring on the vanity.
Her own mistake.
Margaret continued.
“Lucia wanted one thing before returning.”
“What?”
“Samuel.”
“Dead?”
“No.”
“Exposed.”
“To who?”
“The families he had manipulated.”
“Did she find him?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Ten years ago.”
“And?”
Margaret’s face darkened.
“He told her Alessandro had never been his master.”
Giulietta closed her eyes.
Another layer.
Of course.
“Who?”
Margaret whispered:
“Vittorio.”
Giulietta stared.
“No.”
Margaret lifted a hand.
“Not at first.”
She explained.
After Alessandro died, Samuel needed protection.
Vittorio used him.
Not because he trusted him.
Because Samuel knew every enemy’s weakness.
Lucia discovered Vittorio had secretly kept Samuel alive and working.
Cesare went pale.
“I didn’t know.”
Margaret nodded.
“Neither did I.”
Giulietta’s face hardened.
“My father chose Mom at the lake house.”
“Yes.”
“Then chose Samuel later.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Power.”
Simple.
Ugly.
Human.
Margaret continued.
“Lucia confronted Vittorio in Boston.”
“Did they meet?”
“Yes.”
Giulietta stopped breathing.
Her parents met while she was fifteen.
Without her.
“What happened?”
“I wasn’t inside.”
“What did Lucia say after?”
Margaret’s eyes filled.
“That Vittorio begged her to come home.”
Giulietta looked away.
“And?”
“She refused.”
“Why?”
“Because he would not give up Samuel.”
Giulietta swallowed.
Her father chose power the second time.
Not under threat.
Not as a young man trapped by his father.
As himself.
That mattered.
“What happened to Lucia?”
Margaret’s voice dropped.
“Three nights later, she disappeared.”
“Samuel.”
“I believed so.”
“Proof?”
“No.”
Giulietta almost laughed.
Always no.
Margaret reached into her coat.
Bodyguards moved.
She slowly removed a black card.
Same as the anonymous envelope.
“The messages you received were mine.”
Giulietta stared.
“You sent the photograph.”
“Yes.”
“You brought me toward Preston.”
“No.”
Giulietta frowned.
“I warned you about Warren.”
“You were already engaged.”
True.
Margaret continued.
“I wanted you to ask about the club.”
“Why?”
“Because Lucia hid something inside it ten years ago.”
Everyone turned toward Warren.
His face changed.
Margaret smiled without warmth.
“You never checked the grip after Boston.”
Warren whispered:
“No.”
Giulietta had found the Saint Lucia medal.
But perhaps the grip held more.
She had removed only the cap and medal.
May you like
Margaret said:
“There is another compartment.”
