Chapter 3
Warren Hale’s wife had been dead nineteen years.
That was what Giulietta believed.
Margaret Hale.
Elegant.
Private.
Rarely photographed.
The family story said she died after a long illness when Preston was twenty.
Giulietta knew little else.
Warren looked at her.
“Lucia and Margaret were friends.”
Cesare laughed bitterly.
“They were more than friends.”
Giulietta turned.
“What does that mean?”
“Not lovers.”
Warren’s voice was impatient.
“They were allies.”
Against what?
The answer came from Preston.
He had managed to open the connecting door between the bridal suite and salon.
One bodyguard immediately pulled him back.
Giulietta raised a hand.
“Let him stand.”
Preston entered.
His earlier arrogance had thinned.
He saw the medal.
“Dad, what is that?”
Warren did not answer.
Giulietta looked at Preston.
“Did your mother own that golf club?”
He laughed once.
“No.”
“Your father?”
“Yes.”
“Did he use it on her?”
Preston’s face changed.
The cruelty in his line from minutes earlier returned to the room.
“My father used this to teach my mother how to submit.”
Had it been mockery?
Memory?
Something he heard?
Giulietta repeated:
“Did he?”
Preston glanced at Warren.
That was answer enough.
Warren stood.
“This is family history.”
Giulietta’s voice became lethal.
“You raised a club in my bridal suite and your son repeated it like inheritance.”
She stepped closer.
“It stopped being private.”
Preston looked away.
Giulietta turned toward Warren.
“Margaret and my mother.”
Warren sat again.
“Lucia believed somebody was engineering conflict between Marconi and DeLuca.”
Cesare’s jaw tightened.
Giulietta noticed.
“Who?”
“She didn’t know.”
“What did Margaret know?”
Warren looked almost amused.
“That I was helping.”
The room changed.
Giulietta stared.
“You admit it?”
“I admit Lucia believed it.”
“Not the same.”
“No.”
“Why would she?”
“Because Margaret told her.”
Preston looked at his father.
“What?”
Warren ignored him.
Giulietta watched the younger man.
His confusion looked real.
Good.
Not everyone had the whole lie.
Warren continued.
“Margaret became convinced I was meeting someone from inside Marconi.”
“Cesare?”
“No.”
Giulietta looked at her uncle.
Cesare’s face remained unreadable.
“Who?”
Warren shook his head.
“She never told Lucia a name.”
“Why?”
“Because she was afraid Preston would pay.”
Preston laughed.
“My mother abandoned me.”
Warren looked at him.
“There it is.”
Preston’s face hardened.
“You told me she did.”
“She did.”
“Did she?”
Warren said nothing.
Giulietta saw the fracture.
“Margaret didn’t die from illness.”
Preston slowly turned toward his father.
Warren stood.
“Enough.”
Giulietta smiled faintly.
Finally.
The command behind the father.
The son who had spent his life obeying it.
Preston stared.
“Dad.”
Warren looked at him.
“Your mother was unstable.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
Giulietta almost smiled again.
Preston was learning quickly now that the phrases used to control him had edges.
Warren said:
“She left.”
“When?”
“Nineteen years ago.”
“You told me she died.”
“She was dead to us.”
Silence.
Preston’s face went pale.
Giulietta hated him.
Not absolutely.
That was useful.
Because seeing him as only a monster would make the next truth too easy.
A man could be abused and become an abuser.
One did not erase the other.
“Why did she leave?” Preston asked.
Warren’s jaw tightened.
“She betrayed me.”
“How?”
“She tried to take you.”
Preston stared.
“You said she left me.”
“She planned to take you.”
“And?”
“She failed.”
“Why?”
Warren said nothing.
Cesare looked toward the golf club.
Giulietta noticed.
“Uncle.”
Cesare’s face darkened.
“What?”
“You know.”
He closed his eyes.
“Margaret came to Lucia.”
“When?”
“Three weeks before the lake-house fire.”
“What did she want?”
“Help disappearing.”
Preston stepped backward.
Warren glared at Cesare.
“You should have stayed quiet.”
Cesare laughed.
“Seventeen years of silence seems enough.”
Giulietta stared.
Seventeen.
But Margaret vanished nineteen years ago.
Timeline wrong.
“Wait.”
Everyone looked at her.
“You said Margaret left nineteen years ago.”
Warren nodded.
“Cesare says she came to Mom seventeen years ago.”
Silence.
Giulietta’s voice lowered.
“So she came back.”
Cesare nodded.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“To get Preston.”
Preston stopped breathing.
Warren’s eyes became murderous.
Cesare continued.
“Margaret had spent two years hiding.”
“She believed Warren was using Preston to force her return.”
Preston whispered:
“I was eighteen.”
Cesare nodded.
“You were old enough to choose.”
“Did she contact me?”
“Yes.”
Preston’s face emptied.
“No.”
“She sent letters.”
“I never got them.”
Warren stood.
Preston slowly looked at his father.
The older man no longer bothered pretending calm.
“You poisoned him against me.”
Cesare said.
Warren crossed toward him.
Giulietta stepped between them.
“No.”
Warren looked at her.
“You want answers?”
“Yes.”
“Then control your uncle.”
Giulietta’s gaze chilled.
“Careful.”
Silence.
She turned to Cesare.
“What happened when Margaret came back?”
“She met Lucia at Saint Helena.”
“And?”
“She told Lucia Warren wasn’t working alone.”
“Name?”
“Still none.”
“Why?”
Cesare looked at Warren.
“Because Margaret said the man inside Marconi was somebody Lucia loved.”
Giulietta felt cold.
Her father.
Cesare.
Another relative.
Someone close enough to be loved.
Then Cesare added:
“Two days later, Margaret disappeared again.”
Preston whispered:
“Did Dad kill her?”
No one answered.
Warren looked at his son.
“No.”
“Do you know where she is?”
Silence.
Giulietta watched.
That silence was different.
Not ignorance.
Fear.
She leaned forward.
“Warren.”
He looked at her.
May you like
“Margaret Hale is alive, isn’t she?”
Before he answered, the lights in the bridal corridor went out.
