Chapter 2 - The Room Behind the East Door.
Belladonna House felt completely different after the guests left.
Without music, laughter, and champagne service, the mansion sounded old.
The chandeliers still burned above the marble hall, but the warmth they had created during the gala was gone.
Isabella followed Vincent and Dominic up the grand staircase with her purse pressed against her side.
Mrs. Alvarez walked behind them carrying a folded black coat for Isabella.
"Put this on," she said gently.
Isabella looked down at her torn uniform.
For the first time since the confrontation, embarrassment returned.
"Thank you."
The coat belonged to one of the house staff and was too large in the shoulders, but Isabella welcomed the weight of it.
She had spent the evening feeling exposed in more ways than one.
Vincent waited at the landing.
His emerald velvet jacket looked almost black in the dimmer light of the upper hall.
"You don't have to go any farther tonight," he said.
Isabella studied him.
"Five minutes ago you told me my mother was your sister."
"I know."
"A woman who requested me by name just tried to throw me out of this house without my belongings."
"I know that too."
"And now you're telling me there is a locked room upstairs that belonged to my mother."
Vincent nodded.
"Then I'm going farther."
For the first time, something close to respect crossed his face.
"Fair enough."
Dominic led them down the east corridor.
The carpet muffled their footsteps.
Portraits lined the walls, each framed in dark wood and lit by small brass lamps.
Isabella slowed when she reached a photograph of a younger Vincent standing between an elegant dark-haired woman and a stern man in a tuxedo.
The plaque beneath the frame read MORETTI FAMILY FOUNDATION GALA, 1998.
"Your parents?" Isabella asked.
Vincent stopped beside her.
"Lucia and Antonio Moretti."
Isabella stared at Lucia's face.
There was something familiar in the woman's eyes.
Not identical to Teresa.
But familiar enough to make Isabella's chest ache.
"My mother had her eyes," she said.
Vincent looked at the photograph for a long moment.
"Yes."
They continued until Dominic stopped in front of a narrow white door at the far end of the hallway.
There was no plaque.
No decoration.
Only an old brass lock.
Vincent removed a ring of keys from his pocket.
He tried one.
Then another.
Neither turned.
"The locks were changed after my mother died," he said.
Dominic looked at Isabella's brass key.
"Try Teresa's."
Isabella hesitated.
The key in her palm felt suddenly heavier.
She inserted it into the lock.
It turned smoothly.
Nobody spoke.
Isabella pushed the door open.
The air inside smelled faintly of cedar and dust.
Dominic reached for the wall switch.
A single lamp came on beside the bed.
The room was not grand by Belladonna standards.
It was personal.
A narrow brass bed stood beneath a window overlooking the winter garden.
Books filled two shelves.
A faded blue scarf hung from a bedpost.
A wooden music box sat on the dresser beside a dried bundle of lavender.
Everything looked as though someone had stepped out for an hour and never returned.
Isabella crossed the threshold slowly.
Her mother had slept here.
Her mother had chosen those books.
Her mother had looked through that window.
The realization hurt in a way she had not expected.
Teresa had been real before Isabella.
She had been a daughter, a sister, and apparently a Moretti.
"Why did no one clean this out?" Isabella asked.
Vincent stood in the doorway.
"My mother wouldn't allow it."
"For twenty-eight years?"
"She said Teresa would come home."
Isabella turned.
"But you believed she was dead."
"I was twelve when Teresa disappeared."
Vincent looked older suddenly.
"My father told me there had been a car accident near Albany."
"He said the vehicle burned before they could recover her."
Isabella swallowed.
"There was no body?"
"No."
"And everyone accepted that?"
Dominic answered.
"Not everyone."
Vincent looked at him.
"You never told me that."
Dominic's face tightened.
"Your father told me to stop asking questions."
"And you listened?"
"I worked for him then."
"You work for me now."
"Which is why I'm telling you."
The two men stared at each other.
Isabella could feel twenty-eight years of unfinished arguments between them.
She turned away and walked toward the dresser.
The music box was painted with small white flowers.
Her mother had owned one just like it in New Mexico.
Not similar.
Exactly like it.
Isabella reached out and lifted the lid.
A soft mechanical melody played.
She froze.
It was the lullaby Teresa used to hum while cooking dinner.
"She had another one," Isabella whispered.
Vincent stepped into the room.
"Another what?"
"Music box."
Isabella ran her thumb over a scratch near the hinge.
"The one at home had the same flowers."
Dominic approached the dresser.
"Their mother bought matching boxes for Teresa and Vincent."
Vincent looked at him.
"Mine disappeared years ago."
Dominic lifted one eyebrow.
"Your father threw it out after Teresa vanished."
Vincent's jaw tightened.
Isabella examined the inside of the lid.
A faint line ran around the velvet lining.
She remembered Teresa teaching her how to mend hems by feeling for hidden seams.
Isabella slid one fingernail beneath the velvet edge.
It lifted.
Underneath was a folded piece of paper.
Dominic stopped breathing.
Isabella removed it carefully.
The paper was yellowed and brittle.
A single sentence had been written in blue ink.
IF BELLA EVER COMES HERE, TELL HER THE FIRST STORY WAS A LIE.
Isabella stared at the words.
"Bella," she whispered.
Vincent looked over her shoulder.
"Your name?"
"My mother called me Bella."
Dominic sat down heavily in the desk chair.
"That note wasn't written twenty-eight years ago."
Vincent looked at him.
"How do you know?"
Dominic pointed at the ink.
"Your mother had arthritis during the last ten years of her life."
"Her handwriting changed."
"That writing is shaky."
Vincent took the note carefully.
"So my mother knew Isabella existed."
Isabella felt anger rise beneath the shock.
"She knew I existed and never came for us?"
Vincent looked at her.
"We don't know that."
"Your mother knew my name."
"Yes."
"She kept a room ready for Teresa."
"Yes."
"But my mother worked two jobs while I was growing up."
Isabella's voice broke.
"We lived in a one-bedroom apartment while this house had a bedroom waiting for her."
Vincent absorbed the accusation without defending himself.
"You're right to be angry."
"I don't need permission to be angry."
"I wasn't giving it."
That answer surprised her.
Vincent looked down at the note again.
"I am telling you that if someone in my family knew Teresa was alive and chose silence, I want the truth as much as you do."
Isabella shook her head.
"You grew up here."
"That doesn't mean I was told everything."
"You're Vincent Moretti."
"And tonight I learned I have a niece."
The word hit Isabella differently than sister had hit Vincent.
Niece.
It created a relationship she had not agreed to but could not ignore.
She turned back to the dresser.
A framed photograph stood behind the lavender.
It had been placed face down.
Isabella lifted it.
The picture showed a teenage Vincent beside a young woman with thick dark hair and a bright smile.
The woman had one arm around his shoulders.
Around her neck was the same silver locket Isabella wore now.
Isabella touched the glass.
"Mom."
Vincent looked at the photograph.
His expression cracked for the first time.
"That was Teresa's seventeenth birthday."
"She looks happy."
"She was."
"What changed?"
Vincent's gaze moved to Dominic.
"That's what I'm starting to wonder."
Dominic stood.
"There was a man."
Isabella looked at him.
"My father?"
"Marco Romano."
Hearing the name made Isabella's throat tighten.
Teresa had spoken about Marco only twice.
She had said he was brave.
She had said he died before Isabella was born.
"You knew him too?"
Dominic nodded.
"He worked in accounting for Moretti Imports."
Vincent frowned.
"I thought Teresa met him after she left."
"That's what your father wanted everyone to believe."
"Why?"
Dominic walked toward the window.
"Because Marco found irregular transfers in the company's charitable accounts."
Vincent's eyes sharpened.
"What kind of transfers?"
"Money moved through shell vendors tied to the DeMarco family."
The room went silent again.
Isabella thought of Vivian dropping the glass when she heard Romano.
"Vivian's family?"
Dominic nodded.
"Her father, Carlo DeMarco, handled outside contracts for Antonio back then."
Vincent looked stunned.
"Carlo told me he barely knew Teresa."
"Carlo has told many useful lies."
Isabella's hand tightened around the photograph.
"What did Marco do when he found the transfers?"
"He told Teresa."
"And then?"
Dominic turned from the window.
"Three weeks later, Marco disappeared."
Isabella's breath caught.
"My mother said he died in a highway accident."
"That's what we were told too."
Vincent stared at Dominic.
"You are telling me two people connected to those accounts disappeared within a month?"
"Yes."
"And my father never investigated?"
Dominic's silence answered for him.
Vincent walked toward the desk and placed both hands on its edge.
His anger no longer looked explosive.
It looked focused.
"What was the first story?" Isabella asked.
Neither man answered.
She lifted Lucia's note.
"It says the first story was a lie."
Dominic's eyes moved toward the closet.
"There was one story your grandmother repeated until the day she died."
"What story?"
"She said Teresa left because she hated the family."
Isabella shook her head.
"My mother didn't hate people easily."
Dominic nodded.
"Lucia eventually stopped believing it too."
Vincent opened the desk drawers one by one.
Most were empty.
The bottom drawer was locked.
Isabella looked at the brass key still in her hand.
"Maybe that's what this opens."
She tried it.
The key turned.
Inside the drawer was a small leather ledger, a sealed envelope, and another photograph.
Vincent reached for the ledger.
Isabella reached for the envelope.
Her name was written across the front.
ISABELLA TERESA ROMANO.
Her hands began to shake.
The envelope had been sealed with dark red wax bearing the Moretti olive branch.
Vincent looked at her.
"Open it."
Isabella broke the seal.
Inside was a letter written on Belladonna House stationery.
The first line made her sit down on the edge of Teresa's bed.
MY DEAR ISABELLA, IF YOU ARE READING THIS, THEN I FAILED TO BRING YOUR MOTHER HOME BEFORE I DIED.
Isabella blinked through sudden tears.
Vincent lowered the ledger.
"Read the rest."
She continued silently at first.
Then she stopped.
"What?" Vincent asked.
Isabella looked at him.
"Your mother says Teresa didn't run away."
Dominic closed his eyes.
Vincent's face hardened.
"What does she say?"
Isabella looked back at the letter.
"She says Teresa was sent away."
Vincent's voice became very quiet.
"By whom?"
Isabella read the final sentence on the first page.
Then she looked toward the dark hallway outside the room.
May you like
"By your father."
THE LOCKET OF BELLADONNA HOUSE
