Chapter 8 - THE HOUSE AT THE END OF THE ROAD
The address led to a weather-beaten cottage outside a small Illinois town, surrounded by bare trees and a white wooden fence.
Roman insisted on bringing security, but he ordered his men to remain outside until we knew who was inside. For once, he seemed more afraid of frightening someone than of being attacked.
An elderly caretaker opened the door.
Her name was Margaret Ellis, and she had worked at a private refuge for women escaping dangerous situations. She recognized the photograph of Isabella immediately.
“She lived here under another name,” Margaret said. “She was frightened, but she never stopped talking about her son.”
Roman's expression crumpled at the words her son.
Margaret led us into the kitchen, where a saucepan rested on an old stove. The broth smelled faintly of lemon and fennel.
My heart lurched.
“Who made that soup?” I asked.
Margaret looked at me sharply.
“Isabella. She learned the recipe from Lucia.”
Roman walked toward the stove and touched the edge of the saucepan.
“She was here.”
“For years,” Margaret answered. “Then someone discovered this place. She left before they could reach her.”
“Where did she go?”
Margaret glanced toward the window.
“I was told never to reveal her location unless Roman came with Lucia's pendant.”
I showed her the pendant.
She nodded, then handed Roman a small envelope. Inside was a recent photograph of a woman with silver hair sitting beside a garden.
Roman held the picture with both hands.
It was unmistakably his mother.
But Margaret wasn't finished.
“There's something else,” she said. “Isabella didn't want you to find her until you were ready to hear the truth about your father.”
Roman stared at her.
“What truth?”
May you like
Margaret's eyes filled with sorrow.
“Your father wasn't killed by a rival family.”
