Chapter 2
Cesare Marconi had raised Giulietta after her father died.
Not as a parent.
As something harder.
Teacher.
Guardian.
Executioner when necessary.
He was fifty-nine now, her father Vittorio’s younger brother and the man every capo expected to become boss when Vittorio died three years earlier.
Instead, Vittorio’s will had meant nothing compared with the room.
The capos chose Giulietta.
Cesare smiled when they did.
He kissed her forehead.
Called her Donna before anyone else.
Then spent the next three years standing one step behind her.
Never complaining.
Never asking for the chair everyone assumed should have been his.
That loyalty had always bothered Giulietta.
Perfect loyalty usually hid either deep love or deep patience.
Cesare was downstairs.
He had been scheduled to escort Giulietta into the ballroom because her father was dead.
Now Giulietta sent Lorenzo for him.
Warren and Preston were separated.
Preston remained in the bridal suite with two bodyguards.
Warren was moved to the adjacent salon.
No ropes.
No theatrical threats.
Doors were enough.
Giulietta changed nothing about her dress.
The wedding gown remained on her body because she wanted every person involved to remember exactly what night this truth chose to arrive.
Cesare entered twelve minutes later.
He stopped when he saw the medal in her palm.
That was enough.
Giulietta felt something cold move through her.
“You recognize it.”
Cesare looked toward Warren.
“Where did you get that?”
Warren laughed.
“Still performing?”
Cesare stepped toward him.
Giulietta raised one hand.
Her uncle stopped.
“Not yet.”
Cesare looked at her.
“Giulietta.”
“Did you give Warren my mother’s medal?”
“No.”
Warren smiled.
Cesare’s eyes hardened.
Giulietta watched both men.
“Warren says you did.”
“He lies.”
“Frequently?”
“Professionally.”
Warren leaned back.
“Tell her about Lake Belladonna.”
Cesare’s face changed.
Giulietta noticed.
“What about it?”
Cesare looked at her.
“Your mother died there.”
“I know.”
“No.”
Warren’s voice came from behind them.
“You know the story.”
Giulietta turned.
Warren continued.
“The fire began after midnight.”
“Yes.”
“Your father was in Chicago.”
“Yes.”
“Cesare reached the house first.”
Giulietta looked at her uncle.
That was true.
She had always been told Cesare arrived after staff saw smoke.
Warren continued.
“Before firefighters.”
Giulietta disliked the word. Too ordinary. Too modern for this family history. But the memory existed.
Cesare said:
“I tried to save Lucia.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
“Then how did her medal end up inside your hand?”
Cesare looked sharply at Warren.
Giulietta caught it.
“His hand?”
Warren smiled.
“I didn’t say mine.”
Cesare’s face went still.
Warren continued.
“Cesare came out of the lake house carrying two things.”
“Lucia’s medal.”
“And a brass key.”
Giulietta stared.
“What key?”
Cesare said nothing.
Giulietta’s voice darkened.
“Uncle.”
He looked at her.
There was something like grief there.
Real or expertly remembered.
“The key opened your mother’s private room beneath Saint Helena.”
Giulietta frowned.
Saint Helena.
An abandoned chapel on old Marconi land.
She had been there twice as a child.
Never since.
“My mother had a room there?”
“Yes.”
“You never told me.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because Vittorio ordered it sealed.”
Her father.
Giulietta closed her eyes briefly.
Another dead man choosing what his child was allowed to know.
Warren laughed softly.
“The Marconis built entire generations on locked doors.”
Giulietta looked at him.
“So did the Hales.”
Warren’s smile faded.
She turned back to Cesare.
“Did you give him the medal?”
“No.”
“Then how did he get it?”
Cesare stared at Warren.
“I lost it.”
“When?”
“Seventeen years ago.”
“The night Mom died?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
Cesare did not answer quickly enough.
Giulietta felt anger rise.
“Where?”
“In Warren Hale’s house.”
Silence.
Preston’s father.
Her mother’s medal.
Cesare.
One night.
Giulietta spoke slowly.
“Why were you in his house after my mother died?”
Cesare looked toward the closed window.
“Because Warren had something Lucia wanted hidden.”
“What?”
“I never saw it.”
“Then why go?”
“Your mother asked me.”
“When?”
“Two nights before the fire.”
Giulietta stopped.
“You spoke to her.”
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
Cesare’s eyes lowered.
“That if anything happened to her, I was not to let Vittorio start a war.”
Giulietta almost laughed.
Her father had started one anyway.
The year after Lucia died, Vittorio Marconi destroyed the DeLuca crew because a DeLuca token had been found in the burned lake house.
Nine men died.
Two disappeared.
Three families split.
Giulietta had grown up believing her mother was avenged.
Now the medal in her palm made revenge look like a child’s answer to an adult lie.
“Did Warren have anything to do with the fire?”
Cesare said:
“I don’t know.”
Warren smiled.
Giulietta looked at him.
“What do you know?”
Warren’s expression became colder.
“I know Lucia came to my house the night before she died.”
Cesare went still.
Giulietta stared.
“My mother.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
May you like
Warren looked toward Preston’s locked room.
“Because she came to see my wife.”
