Chapter 13 - The Price of Walking Away.
The board meeting was still two hours away when Isabella asked Vincent to drive her to Queens.
He stared at her as if she had suggested a picnic during a hurricane.
"Why?"
"I need clothes."
"Mrs. Alvarez can arrange anything you need."
"I don't want anything arranged."
"Then send someone for your things."
Isabella folded her arms.
"I have spent two days being told what my mother chose, what my grandmother feared, what your board owns, and what Patrick thinks I'm worth."
"I want to choose my own sweater."
Vincent considered that.
"Fine."
Dominic insisted on going with them.
The reporters at Belladonna's front gate made departure impossible without creating another spectacle.
They used the underground garage and left in an ordinary SUV.
Isabella's apartment building looked exactly as it had two days earlier.
That was almost insulting.
Laundry turned behind the glass of the basement machines.
Someone argued about parking on the sidewalk.
A delivery cyclist balanced three bags on one handlebar.
Life had continued without waiting for her story to become complicated.
Vincent followed her upstairs.
"You don't need to come in."
"Someone photographed this building."
"I remember."
"Then I'm coming in."
Isabella unlocked her apartment.
Vincent stopped just inside the doorway.
The space was small but warm.
Books covered one wall.
A thrift-store dining table stood beside the kitchen.
Teresa's framed photograph sat above the television.
Vincent walked toward it.
In the picture, Teresa was laughing with flour on her cheek while Isabella, age twelve, held a crooked birthday cake.
"I never saw her this age," he said.
Isabella opened her bedroom closet.
"She was forty-six there."
"She looks happy."
"She was."
Isabella paused.
"Not all the time."
"But enough."
Vincent studied the photograph.
"I'm glad."
She looked at him.
The sentence contained no claim on Teresa's life.
No demand that she should have returned.
Just relief that his sister had experienced happiness somewhere beyond Belladonna.
Isabella softened slightly.
Then she saw an envelope on the floor beneath her door.
"That wasn't there before."
Dominic moved first.
He picked it up with gloved hands.
Inside was another settlement agreement.
This one came from Carlo DeMarco's attorney.
Fifty million dollars.
Confidentiality.
No public accusations.
No trust claim.
No cooperation with investigators.
And one unusual condition.
Transfer possession of the Moretti locket to a neutral escrow agent.
Isabella stared at the amount.
"Patrick offered twenty-five."
Vincent's expression darkened.
"Carlo doubled it."
Dominic looked at the locket around her neck.
"Which means he's more afraid of that than the shares."
Isabella sat at the kitchen table.
"Why?"
Vincent looked around the apartment.
"Marco said the locket was half a key."
"We used it with the music box to get Lucia."
"Maybe that wasn't the only thing it opens."
Isabella unclasped the necklace.
She examined every seam.
The locket opened normally at the front.
The photograph could be removed.
The blue fabric could be lifted.
Nothing else appeared unusual.
Dominic held it beneath the kitchen light.
"The back plate is thicker than it should be."
Vincent looked at him.
"Can it open?"
"Maybe with a jeweler's tool."
Isabella took it back.
"Nobody pries this apart until we know what we're doing."
"Agreed."
Her phone buzzed.
A news alert showed a photograph of Isabella from the gala.
The headline read MAID OR HEIRESS? WOMAN AT CENTER OF MORETTI POWER FIGHT.
She stared at it.
"I hate that."
Vincent looked over her shoulder.
"Which part?"
"The choice."
"Maid or heiress."
"Like one makes the other impossible."
"Like working for a living is embarrassing once somebody thinks you might be rich."
Vincent sat across from her.
"What do you want to do about it?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"Not yet."
"Everyone wants me to explain myself before I even know the whole story."
"Let them be uncomfortable."
Vincent nodded.
"That is usually expensive advice."
"You can afford it."
He smiled.
Isabella packed jeans, sweaters, toiletries, and her mother's old notebook.
The notebook had sat in her nightstand for two years.
She had read the first ten pages after Teresa died, then stopped because the grief felt too private.
Now she slipped it into her bag.
As she did, a loose paper fell out.
It was a grocery receipt from 2017.
Teresa had written something on the back.
IF THEY EVER OFFER BELLA MONEY, SHE MUST ASK WHO OWNS THE GROUND UNDER BELLADONNA.
Isabella stared at the sentence.
"Vincent."
He came into the bedroom.
She handed him the receipt.
He read it twice.
"Who owns the ground?"
"Belladonna Holdings."
"You're sure?"
"I should be."
"Should be isn't sure."
Vincent took out his phone and called general counsel.
The answer took ten minutes.
Belladonna Holdings owned the mansion structure, the hotel operations, and adjacent development rights.
But the land beneath Belladonna House itself belonged to a separate entity.
Luciana Land Trust.
Vincent stared at the phone after the attorney finished.
"I have never heard of it."
Isabella looked at Dominic.
"Same Lucia?"
"Almost certainly."
Vincent asked for the trust registry.
The attorney sent it.
Beneficiaries were listed by branch.
Antonio Moretti's branch held forty percent.
Teresa Moretti's branch held forty percent.
A charitable remainder held twenty percent.
Isabella sat down slowly.
"My mother owned the ground under the house."
Vincent nodded.
"Half of the family portion."
Dominic looked at the settlement letter.
"That's why Carlo wants you gone."
"Not just voting shares."
"The land trust gives Isabella leverage over the property itself."
Isabella laughed weakly.
"My mother cleaned houses while technically owning part of this one."
Vincent looked ashamed.
"She may not have known the trust still existed."
Isabella opened Teresa's notebook.
"She knew enough to leave me that question."
They returned to Belladonna through the garage.
Mrs. Alvarez met Isabella downstairs.
"The staff is worried about you."
Isabella frowned.
"Why?"
"Because the news keeps calling you a maid like it's an accusation."
Isabella looked toward the staff dining room.
Several employees were inside eating before the late meeting.
She walked in.
Conversation stopped.
A young server named Jenna stood first.
"Are you okay?"
Isabella smiled.
"No."
Jenna laughed.
"Good."
"Because none of us would be okay."
Isabella sat with them for fifteen minutes.
Nobody asked about money.
They asked whether she had slept.
Whether Vivian was really gone.
Whether the ballroom floor had been repaired.
Whether she planned to sue over unpaid wages.
That last question made Isabella laugh.
"Yes."
Mrs. Alvarez raised her coffee cup.
"Good."
Vincent watched from the doorway without entering.
Isabella noticed.
She understood why.
This was not his table unless invited.
That mattered.
At ten-thirty, she changed into black trousers and the cream sweater Vincent's staff had bought the previous morning.
She left the locket visible.
Janet met her outside the boardroom.
"You can still choose not to go in."
Isabella looked at the massive carved doors.
"Patrick has spent twenty-eight years making decisions with my mother's name hidden in a drawer."
"I'm done waiting outside rooms where people decide what she meant."
The doors opened.
Fourteen directors were seated around a polished walnut table.
Patrick Sloan sat at the far end.
Carlo DeMarco occupied a guest chair beside him.
Vivian was nowhere in sight.
Patrick looked at Isabella as if he had expected a frightened woman and found an inconvenience instead.
"Ms. Romano," he said.
"This is a private board meeting."
Isabella walked to the empty chair beside Vincent.
May you like
"Then you should stop using my mother's votes in it."
THE LOCKET OF BELLADONNA HOUSE
