Chapter 5 - THE ENVELOPE ADDRESSED TO ROSIE
By sunrise, Rosie Hastings had learned more about her family than she'd discovered in twenty-eight years.
And she still had a wedding to organize.
Four hundred ninety-eight guests.
Imported food.
A temperamental bride.
And somewhere in Chicago, a mafia boss who might be her uncle.
Rosie stared at her reflection in the hotel restroom.
"You look terrible," she told herself.
Then she applied concealer, fixed her hair, and returned to work.
The first delivery arrived at six fifteen.
The second arrived at six twenty-eight.
Every supplier behaved with suspicious politeness.
Even Salvatore Rossi personally apologized for yesterday's disagreement.
Rosie narrowed her eyes.
"Did Lorenzo Bianca speak to you?"
Salvatore nearly dropped his clipboard.
"No."
"Salvatore."
He swallowed.
"Maybe."
She sighed.
"Wonderful."
By nine, the wedding preparations were running smoothly.
Then the bride's mother appeared.
"Rosie, the orchids are the wrong shade."
Rosie looked at the enormous floral installation.
"They're ivory, Mrs. Prescott. Exactly as specified."
"They look cream."
"They are ivory."
"I know what cream looks like."
Rosie smiled professionally.
For the next twenty minutes, she negotiated a floral crisis that would have exhausted a United Nations diplomat.
At ten thirty, her assistant handed her an envelope.
"This was delivered by courier."
Rosie examined it.
No return address.
Her name written in elegant black ink.
Rosalina Marie Hastings.
Inside was a photograph.
A man in his early thirties stood beside a white pickup truck.
He had dark hair, green eyes, and a familiar crooked smile.
Rosie felt her knees weaken.
Her father.
Michael Hastings.
Alive.
On the back was a recent date.
Three weeks earlier.
A note accompanied the photograph.
Your father never stopped looking for you.
Ask Lorenzo Bianca why he never told you Michael was alive.
Rosie stared at the words.
Anger rose through her exhaustion.
Lorenzo knew.
He had stood on the loading dock asking questions about her grandmother while hiding the fact that her father might still be alive.
She grabbed her phone.
The business card was still in her pocket.
She dialed.
Lorenzo answered after one ring.
"Rosie."
She didn't bother with a greeting.
"Where is my father?"
Silence.
Then Lorenzo said, "Who told you?"
"Answer me."
"Rosie, this isn't a conversation we should have over the phone."
"Then come to the Drake."
"I'm already here."
She froze.
"What?"
"Look toward the entrance."
Rosie turned.
Lorenzo Bianca stood near the ballroom doors in a dark suit.
Two security men waited behind him.
His expression was serious.
Rosie crossed the room.
"Where is Michael Hastings?"
Lorenzo looked at the photograph in her hand.
His face changed.
"Who gave you that?"
"I don't know."
He took a closer look.
Then swore softly in Sicilian.
Rosie stepped closer.
"Is he alive?"
Lorenzo looked at her.
"Yes."
Her eyes filled.
"Where?"
His silence terrified her.
"Lorenzo."
He gently took the envelope.
Then pointed to a tiny symbol printed in the lower corner.
A black compass surrounded by three stars.
Rosie frowned.
"What is that?"
May you like
Lorenzo's expression hardened.
"The symbol of the people who took your father."
