Chapter 3 - THE DEATH NO ONE TALKED ABOUT
Vincent opened the door with a gun in his hand.
I had never actually seen someone move that fast.
The man outside immediately raised both hands.
Mid-fifties.
Gray suit.
No weapon visible.
“Easy.”
Vincent’s voice was cold.
“Name.”
“Samuel Hartwell.”
My heart stopped.
Hartwell.
My last name.
I stared.
“Who are you?”
The man looked at me.
“Your uncle.”
I laughed.
“No.”
My mother had no brother.
At least none I had ever heard about.
“My mother is an only child.”
Samuel’s expression tightened.
“That is what Rose told everyone.”
I looked toward Vincent.
He didn’t lower the gun.
“Why are you here?”
Samuel reached slowly into his coat.
Marco moved.
“Careful.”
“It’s a photograph.”
He pulled it out.
My mother.
Young.
Maybe twenty.
Standing beside Samuel.
And Rose.
My grandmother.
There was no denying the resemblance.
My mouth went dry.
“Why didn’t she tell me?”
Samuel looked at the floor.
“Because we stopped being family.”
“Why?”
He glanced at Vincent.
“Because of the Marinos.”
Vincent’s jaw tightened.
“Explain.”
Samuel laughed bitterly.
“You really don’t know.”
“If I knew, you wouldn’t be standing.”
Reasonable.
Samuel looked at me.
“Rose died because Vincent’s father ordered it.”
My chest tightened.
“No.”
“She was killed in a car accident.”
“That’s what they told you.”
Vincent’s voice sharpened.
“My father never ordered Rose Bell killed.”
Samuel turned.
“Your father ordered everyone connected to Angelo Bell removed.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
Vincent’s expression darkened.
“My father hated Angelo. He didn’t kill civilians.”
Samuel laughed.
“That’s what sons tell themselves.”
I stepped between them.
“Enough.”
Both men looked at me.
Good.
“Evidence.”
Samuel blinked.
“What?”
“You accuse his father of murder. Show me proof.”
Something almost like approval crossed Vincent’s face.
Samuel opened his phone.
An old scanned document.
A contract.
My grandmother’s name.
ROSE BELL HARTWELL.
A payment authorization.
Beside it:
R. MARINO.
Vincent stared.
“Raffaele.”
“Your father,” Samuel said.
Vincent’s face hardened.
But he did not deny the signature.
“Where did you get this?”
“Rose’s files.”
“You had them?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because she knew she was being watched.”
My stomach twisted.
“Did my mother know?”
Samuel looked away.
“She knew some.”
Of course.
Everyone knew some.
Nobody knew everything.
I hated this family already.
Vincent paced once.
“Why would my father want Rose dead?”
Samuel looked at me.
“Because she had something.”
“What?”
“The original Bellatori ledger.”
Vincent stopped.
Marco swore quietly.
I frowned.
“Another ledger?”
Vincent looked at me.
“That ledger documented every family tied to Angelo Bell.”
“Names?”
“Names, debts, properties, political payments.”
Samuel continued.
“And bloodlines.”
My stomach dropped.
“What does that mean?”
“Angelo believed family ownership should remain within his descendants.”
Vincent looked disgusted.
“He built trusts.”
Samuel nodded.
“Rose inherited one.”
I stared.
“My grandmother?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
Samuel hesitated.
“A lot.”
“How much is a lot?”
“Today?”
“Yes.”
“Possibly two hundred million.”
I laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because my bank account had $6,842 and I had spent three months debating whether to replace my refrigerator.
“Two hundred million?”
“Possibly more.”
Vincent’s eyes narrowed.
“And who inherited it?”
Samuel looked at me.
“You.”
Silence.
I stared.
“No.”
“Rose left the controlling interest to her eldest female grandchild.”
“That’s absurd.”
“You’re the only one.”
My brain refused to cooperate.
Vincent looked toward my locket.
“The key.”
Samuel nodded.
“What key?” I asked.
“The locket.”
I grabbed it.
“Why does everyone care about this stupid necklace?”
Samuel stepped closer.
“Because it opens the Bell family vault.”
Vincent looked at Marco.
“Where?”
Samuel answered.
“Under the old Hartwell bank building.”
My stomach dropped.
My family still owned that building.
At least technically.
It had been closed for twenty years.
Then a phone rang.
Samuel’s.
He looked at the screen.
His face went white.
“What?”
He turned the phone toward us.
Live video.
My mother.
Tied to a chair.
My stomach dropped.
A man stood behind her.
Mr. Caldwell.
The widower.
He smiled into the camera.
“Hello, Evelyn.”
I stopped breathing.
May you like
Then he said,
“Bring me the locket.”
