Chapter 8 - THE SISTER WHO CAME HOME
Vincent DeMarco didn't sleep that night.
Neither did I.
By six the following morning, the mansion was completely quiet.
The golden chandeliers had been dimmed.
The banquet table had been cleared.
Only Isabella's wedding dress remained in the private dining room.
Margaret had placed it on a padded dress form.
The bloodstained lace faced the doorway.
Vincent stood before it.
He hadn't changed his clothes.
His black suit was wrinkled.
His eyes were red.
“Eight years,” he whispered.
I stood near the window.
“Mr. DeMarco?”
He looked toward me.
“What if she doesn't want to see me?”
The question startled me.
This was Vincent DeMarco.
A man feared throughout Philadelphia.
A man whose name could silence an entire room.
But at that moment, he looked like a little boy waiting for someone he'd lost.
“Why wouldn't she?” I asked.
He looked at the gown.
“Because I believed she ran away.”
“You didn't know the truth.”
“I should have looked harder.”
“You did look.”
“Not hard enough.”
I hesitated.
Then I said something I wasn't sure he wanted to hear.
“Maybe your sister doesn't need you to have been perfect.”
He looked at me.
“Maybe she just needs you to believe her now.”
For a moment, he said nothing.
Then he nodded.
“Thank you, Claire.”
At eight-thirty, Owen announced that Lydia had arrived.
She wasn't alone.
Beside her stood Thomas Bell.
He looked older than his photograph.
His hair was streaked with gray.
He carried his left shoulder stiffly beneath a dark jacket.
When Vincent saw him, the room went silent.
Thomas stopped several feet away.
“Vincent.”
For a moment, neither man moved.
Then Vincent spoke.
“I owe you an apology.”
Thomas looked surprised.
Vincent continued.
“I blamed you for what happened to Isabella.”
Thomas swallowed.
“I blamed myself.”
“You tried to save her.”
“I didn't succeed.”
Vincent looked at the scar above his collar.
“You tried.”
Thomas lowered his eyes.
“That wasn't enough.”
Vincent held out his hand.
Thomas stared at it.
Then shook it.
I saw Eleanor begin crying.
She sat beside Margaret, clutching Isabella's necklace.
Lydia looked toward the doorway.
“She's here.”
Everyone turned.
A woman stood just inside the hall.
She wore a simple navy-blue coat.
Her dark hair fell to her shoulders.
There were faint lines around her eyes.
She was no longer the smiling twenty-four-year-old woman in the wedding photograph.
She was thirty-two.
Older.
Thinner.
And terribly nervous.
Vincent stopped breathing.
“Isabella?”
She looked at him.
For several seconds, nobody moved.
Then she whispered:
“Hi, Vinnie.”
The nickname broke him.
Vincent crossed the room in three steps.
He stopped in front of her.
Almost afraid to touch her.
“Bella?”
She began crying.
“I'm sorry.”
Vincent shook his head.
“No.”
“I wanted to come home.”
“I know.”
“I tried.”
“I know.”
Then he pulled her into his arms.
Isabella buried her face against his shoulder.
And Vincent DeMarco, the man who had stood stone-faced through funerals and betrayals, began to sob.
Eleanor reached for them.
“My baby.”
Isabella broke away from Vincent.
She knelt beside her mother's wheelchair.
“Mom.”
Eleanor held her face between trembling hands.
“Oh, Isabella.”
For a long time, neither woman spoke.
They simply held each other.
Margaret sat crying into a handkerchief.
Thomas turned toward the window.
And I stood beside the fireplace, trying not to cry myself.
But happiness didn't erase eight years.
When Isabella finally stood, she looked toward the wedding dress.
Her face changed.
She approached slowly.
Touched the lace.
Then closed her eyes.
“I never thought I'd see it again.”
Margaret joined her.
“I kept every piece exactly as you left it, sweetheart.”
Isabella looked at the stain.
“You shouldn't have had to.”
Vincent stepped closer.
“Bella, what happened that night?”
She looked at Thomas.
Then at Lydia.
Finally, she faced her brother.
“Three years after Dad died, I found a letter he'd written to Mom.”
Eleanor lowered her eyes.
“I hid it because I was afraid.”
Isabella nodded.
“I know.”
She continued.
“Dad had discovered Arthur's illegal shipments. But the letter mentioned something worse.”
Vincent frowned.
“What?”
“Arthur wasn't acting alone.”
Salvatore, who had arrived earlier that morning, suddenly stepped forward.
“Isabella…”
She looked at him.
“It's okay, Uncle Sal.”
Vincent stared.
“You knew she was alive?”
Salvatore shook his head.
“Not until Lydia contacted me last month.”
Isabella nodded.
“He helped me identify the original shipping records.”
Vincent looked at his sister.
“Who was working with Arthur?”
She took a breath.
“Frank Dwyer handled the threats. Arthur handled the money. But someone inside the company approved access to the warehouses.”
Vincent looked at Salvatore.
“He said he gave Arthur access.”
“Yes. But he didn't authorize the final shipment.”
“Who did?”
Isabella reached into her coat.
She removed a small leather folder.
Inside were photographs of old warehouse entry cards.
Copies of vehicle logs.
And a photograph of Richard standing beside a shipping container.
Vincent examined them.
The final entry card carried a familiar name.
VINCENT A. DEMARCO.
He stared.
“That's impossible.”
Isabella nodded.
“I know.”
Vincent looked up.
“I wasn't at the warehouse that night.”
“That's why Dad was worried.”
She pointed toward a handwritten note on the back.
Richard had written:
SOMEONE IS USING MY SON'S AUTHORITY WITHOUT HIS KNOWLEDGE.
Vincent stared at the words.
“Arthur forged my signature.”
“Yes.”
“And used my access credentials.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Isabella's expression darkened.
“To make you look responsible if the illegal shipments were discovered.”
Vincent stepped backward.
For eleven years, he'd believed Arthur was simply a wealthy businessman connected to his father.
Now he understood that Arthur had been preparing to destroy him long before they'd become family through Victoria.
“Why didn't you tell me?” he whispered.
Isabella's eyes filled with tears.
“Because Arthur showed me records bearing your signature. I thought you'd be accused of Dad's murder.”
Vincent shook his head.
“I would have believed you.”
“I know that now.”
Thomas stepped forward.
“Isabella didn't spend those eight years hiding from her family because she wanted to. For the first years, Arthur's people controlled where she lived and whom she contacted.”
Isabella nodded.
“After I escaped, I tried to make contact twice. Both attempts were intercepted. I learned that Frank still had access to information about Vincent's movements.”
She looked toward her brother.
“I couldn't risk leading them to you again.”
Vincent's face tightened.
“And for the past four years?”
“I've been working with Thomas and Lydia. We gathered records, found witnesses, and finally obtained the original storage information.”
Vincent looked at the folder.
“Is this enough?”
“Almost.”
Isabella hesitated.
“There's one thing missing.”
“What?”
“The original authorization that ordered the warehouse doors opened for Frank Dwyer.”
Vincent frowned.
“Who has it?”
Isabella looked toward the hallway.
“Victoria.”
I felt my stomach drop.
Vincent went still.
“My fiancée?”
Isabella nodded.
“Her father gave it to her years ago, disguised as part of a family investment file.”
Vincent stared.
“Does she know what it is?”
“I don't think she understood its significance until recently.”
Before Vincent could respond, Owen entered.
“Boss. Victoria is here.”
The room became silent.
Victoria stood in the doorway.
Her face was pale.
She wore the same cream-colored coat she'd worn at the engagement dinner.
In her hands was a narrow wooden jewelry box.
She looked at Isabella.
Then at Vincent.
“I'm not here to defend my father.”
Vincent stared at her.
“Then why are you here?”
Victoria placed the box on the table.
“Because last night I went through the papers he made me keep.”
She opened the lid.
Inside lay an old gold bracelet.
A folded warehouse access card.
And a small cassette tape.
Vincent looked at the card.
His face hardened.
Victoria began crying.
“My father told me these were souvenirs from a business deal that went wrong.”
Isabella stepped forward.
“Victoria, where did you find the tape?”
“In the bracelet box. Under the velvet lining.”
Isabella stared at it.
Then her face changed.
She looked toward Thomas.
“That's the recording Dad made before he died.”
Vincent slowly picked up the cassette.
“What recording?”
Isabella's voice trembled.
“The one he made when he realized Arthur was planning to kill him.”
May you like
She looked directly at her brother.
“Vincent, whatever you hear on that tape, please remember one thing. Dad wasn't trying to save his business. He was trying to save you.”
