Chapter 2 - THE WOMAN IN THE PHOTOGRAPH
“Get that woman out of my daughters’ room.”
Dante Moretti spoke so quietly that Enzo Bellini almost missed the words.
The twins had been asleep for twenty-three minutes.
Twenty-three minutes of silence after three years of screaming.
And now their father was considering removing the only person who had managed to comfort them.
“Boss,” Enzo whispered, “the girls are sleeping.”
“I can see that.”
“Then perhaps we should wait until morning.”
Dante stared through the nursery doorway.
Sarah Jenkins sat on the carpet between the two little beds. Bella’s small hand rested against her sleeve. Mia had fallen asleep clutching the edge of Sarah’s cardigan.
The scene should have brought Dante relief.
Instead, it frightened him.
Because the melody Sarah had sung belonged to a part of Isabella’s life he had never fully understood.
And because Enzo had just discovered something about Sarah’s grandmother.
“Rose Jenkins,” Enzo said, consulting the information on his phone. “Born Rosa Bellafiore. She changed her surname after marrying an American mechanic in Chicago.”
Dante turned.
“Bellafiore?”
Enzo nodded.
For nearly thirty years, the Moretti and Bellafiore families had blamed each other for the Pier Nine warehouse fire.
One man had died.
Eleven others had been injured.
The disaster had destroyed business partnerships, divided neighborhoods, and started a feud that Dante had inherited before he was old enough to understand it.
His uncle Carlo had always insisted the Bellafiores were responsible.
Now a granddaughter of that family was sitting beside Dante’s children.
“Does she know?” Dante asked.
“I haven't established that.”
“Find out.”
Enzo hesitated.
“Her grandmother died four months ago. Sarah apparently supported her through a long illness. No criminal history. No suspicious financial connections. She worked in a nursing home until it closed, then applied through the same employment agency we use.”
Dante looked toward the nursery again.
“She could have chosen any family.”
“She applied for several positions. Ours paid the most.”
Something about that ordinary explanation disturbed Dante more than an elaborate conspiracy would have.
Sarah had entered his home because she needed money.
And in less than an hour, she had accomplished what money had failed to buy.
The following morning, Dante found her preparing oatmeal in the kitchen.
“You knew who I was when you accepted this job,” he said.
Sarah turned.
“Everyone in Chicago knows who you are.”
“Did your grandmother ever mention my family?”
Her spoon stopped moving.
“Sometimes.”
“What did she say?”
Sarah considered the question.
“She said powerful families could make terrible mistakes. And poor families usually paid for them.”
Dante stiffened.
“Anything else?”
“She told me never to judge children by the things their parents had done.”
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Sarah added, “Mr. Moretti, if you believe I came here to hurt your daughters, you should fire me. But please don't tell them I abandoned them because they cried.”
The words landed harder than she intended.
Before Dante could respond, Bella appeared in the doorway wearing mismatched slippers.
“Sarah?”
The little girl hurried across the kitchen and wrapped both arms around Sarah’s leg.
“Don't go.”
Dante watched Sarah kneel.
“I'm right here, sweetheart.”
Bella looked at her father.
“Daddy, she sings Mommy's song.”
Dante crouched beside his daughter.
“I know.”
“Can she stay?”
He looked at Sarah.
“For now.”
Sarah's expression changed only slightly.
But he noticed.
She understood that her job depended on a suspicion she had done nothing to deserve.
Later that morning, Sarah asked permission to retrieve clean clothes from her apartment.
Enzo accompanied her.
Her apartment in Pilsen occupied the second floor of an aging brick building above a closed tailor shop.
There were no expensive possessions.
Just a narrow bed, a kitchen table, two mismatched chairs, and a cardboard box containing her grandmother’s belongings.
While Sarah packed, Enzo noticed a silver rosary resting beside an old prayer book.
One blue bead was missing.
“My grandmother carried that everywhere,” Sarah explained.
She opened the prayer book.
A faded photograph slipped onto the floor.
Sarah bent to retrieve it.
Then stopped.
Two women stood outside a small Chicago church.
One was elderly, with silver hair and a gentle smile.
The other was younger, beautiful, with dark curls and a familiar expression.
Sarah recognized her immediately.
She had seen that face in the Moretti mansion.
In the enormous portrait above the drawing-room fireplace.
“That's Mrs. Moretti,” she whispered.
Enzo took one step closer.
“Where did you get this?”
“It was my grandmother's.”
The photograph was dated seventeen days before Isabella's death.
On the back, someone had written a short message in blue ink.
Enzo recognized Isabella's handwriting from years of birthday cards and household notes.
He read it twice before handing it to Sarah.
Rosa, I put the second photograph inside the girls' blue music box. If Carlo learns what we discovered, I don't know what he will do.
Sarah looked up.
“Who's Carlo?”
Enzo's face drained of color.
May you like
“Dante's uncle.”
And for the first time, Sarah understood that the song she had sung might not be the most dangerous thing her grandmother had left behind.
