Chapter 5 - THE SANCTUARY AT KENOSHA
The black DeLuca SUV turned off the rural Wisconsin highway onto a cracked asphalt lane lined with weeping willows. St. Jude’s Haven was a quiet, brick estate overlooking the gray expanse of Lake Michigan, far removed from the lavish mansions of Chicago’s North Shore.
Leo sat in the back seat, clean-shaven and pale, holding the red mitten in his lap like a talisman. Roman drove with white-knuckled focus, while Mara sat in the passenger seat, acting as the quiet anchor in the brewing storm.
Inside the front office, an elderly nun in a gray habit checked their identification. When Roman presented the silver key and the quarterly payment voucher signed with Silvio’s private LLC, the sister’s eyes filled with quiet recognition.
“You’re Roman,” Sister Beatrice murmured softly, touching his sleeve. “She talked about you every single morning for twenty years. Before the stroke took her speech.”
Roman swallowed hard, his stoic facade cracking for an agonizing second. “She’s alive?”
“Her body is tired, Mr. DeLuca,” the sister said gently. “Her mind drifts back to the years when her boys were small. Come. She’s in the garden conservatory.”
They walked down a quiet, sunlit corridor scented with lemon polish and floor wax—a scent that made Roman glance sideways at Mara, whose warm hand brushed against his for just an instant, offering steady strength.
In the sunlit corner of the glass room sat a fragile woman with pure silver hair, wrapped in a pale blue cashmere shawl. Her hands were thin, resting on a sketchpad in her lap.
Leo stopped in the doorway, his chest heaving as tears spilled silently down his face. Roman stepped forward first, kneeling beside her wheelchair so he was at eye level.
“Mom,” Roman whispered.
The woman turned her head slowly. Her dark eyes, cloudy with age but startlingly bright, focused on his face. She lifted a frail, spotted hand, touching the small scar near his eyebrow. A soft, breathless sound escaped her lips.
“Ro… man,” she whispered, the syllable thick and difficult.
Leo dropped to his knees on her other side, burying his face against her knees, weeping like the lost seven-year-old boy he had been for nearly three decades. “I’m sorry, Mama. I’m so sorry. I thought you didn't want me.”
Helena DeLuca stroked her younger son’s hair with trembling fingers, tears slipping down her weathered cheeks. She couldn't speak in full sentences, but her touch spoke with absolute ferocity.
Mara stood by the door, her own throat tight with emotion, watching the broken family begin to fuse back together. But as she watched Helena, she noticed the woman’s left hand tapping frantically against the arm of her chair.
Helena looked past her sons, her eyes locking onto Mara with urgent intensity.
Mara stepped forward, kneeling beside the chair. Helena reached out with surprising strength, gripping Mara’s wrist. She pointed a trembling finger toward a drawer in the small side table next to her.
Roman stood, opening the small drawer. Inside lay a single, velvet-covered jewelry box. He lifted the lid.
It wasn't a necklace or diamond ring.
Resting on the velvet was an audio cassette tape labeled Lake Forest - Oct 14, 1996 and a small silver baby bracelet engraved with a name that made Roman’s blood run cold:
Clara DeLuca.
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Roman stared at the bracelet, his breath catching in his throat. “Who is Clara?”
Helena’s eyes filled with raw terror. She pointed at the tape, then grasped Roman’s lapel, whispering with desperate effort: “Silvio… took… her.”
