Chapter 1
“Move away from the chapel door.”
Vanessa Bellini stood beside the man dressed as a priest.
I stayed where I was.
“No, ma’am.”
Her eyes hardened.
“What did you say?”
“I need Mr. Moretti.”
The man beside her shifted uneasily.
He wore a clerical collar.
Black coat.
Silver cross.
But Father Michael had served the Moretti family for twenty-two years.
And this man was not Father Michael.
My hands trembled.
Both palms were wrapped in white bandages.
Long superficial cuts crossed the backs of my fingers and wrists.
Dark purple bruises covered my knuckles.
My right forearm was wrapped too.
Vanessa had caught me opening the old chapel cabinet that afternoon.
She had made sure I regretted it.
Then heavy footsteps crossed the stone corridor.
Luca Moretti appeared.
Thirty-nine.
Six-foot-four.
White Italian-American.
Broad and muscular.
Short black fade haircut.
Heavy dark beard.
Old scars across his face.
Dense black-and-gray tattoos covered both hands, forearms and climbed his neck almost to the jaw.
He wore a black suit with no tie.
He looked like the head of a crime family because that was exactly what he was.
His eyes moved to my hands.
“Emily.”
“Yes, sir?”
“What happened?”
Vanessa answered instantly.
“She cut herself cleaning the altar.”
Luca turned toward her.
“Both hands?”
Vanessa hesitated.
“She dropped some glass.”
The fake priest looked away.
Luca noticed.
Then he looked at me.
“Why won’t you let him inside?”
I swallowed.
“Because Father Michael called twenty minutes ago.”
Vanessa froze.
Luca’s eyes narrowed.
“And?”
“He said he never sent anyone.”
Nobody moved.
Luca looked at the stranger.
“Take off the collar.”
The man went pale.
And beneath his coat—
was a small locked wooden box bearing the Moretti family crest.
For several seconds, Luca said nothing.
Neither did I.
The box was dark walnut.
About the size of a large Bible.
Brass corners.
A narrow slot across the top.
The Moretti crest had been burned into the lid years ago.
I knew because I had seen it at three-ten that afternoon.
Inside the old chapel cabinet.
Before Vanessa grabbed me.
Luca looked at the man.
“Name.”
The stranger swallowed.
“Graham Pike.”
“You’re not a priest.”
“No.”
“Then why are you dressed like one?”
Graham looked at Vanessa.
She closed her eyes.
Luca’s voice dropped.
“Wrong direction.”
Graham looked back at him.
“I was hired to retrieve the box.”
“By who?”
Silence.
Vanessa said:
“Me.”
The chapel corridor seemed to lose air.
Luca looked at the box again.
Then at my bandages.
“Emily.”
My stomach tightened.
“Yes, sir?”
“Start with this afternoon.”
My name is Emily Carter.
I was thirty-one.
I had worked at the Moretti estate for fourteen months.
I cleaned guest rooms.
helped set tables.
kept the chapel polished before family events.
knew which radiator hissed in the east hall and which pantry door stuck in wet weather.
I was not security.
I was not family.
At three that afternoon, I was trying to find a missing box of beeswax candles.
The chapel kept old supplies inside a carved oak cabinet beside the sacristy door.
Most staff avoided the bottom compartment because the key stuck.
Father Michael had told me once:
“If it jams, lift the door slightly before turning.”
So I did.
The key turned.
The lower cabinet opened.
A stack of folded altar cloths sat on top.
Behind them was a warped wooden panel.
I moved it.
And saw the box.
Dark walnut.
Moretti crest.
Dust around the edges.
A strip of faded white ribbon tied around one handle.
I did not open it.
It was locked.
But beside it lay three loose envelopes.
Old.
Cream paper.
Each sealed.
One addressed:
MRS. TERESA MORETTI — PRIVATE.
Another:
FATHER MICHAEL ONLY.
The third had a name written across the front.
MARISA BELLINI.
I froze.
Vanessa’s mother.
Still alive.
Still very much part of the Bellini family.
I had met her twice.
Elegant.
quiet.
never stayed late.
I was still staring when Vanessa entered.
“What are you doing?”
I turned.
“The candle box is missing.”
Her eyes went to the open cabinet.
Then the envelope.
All color left her face.
“Give me that.”
“I didn’t touch it.”
“Give it to me.”
“It’s in the cabinet.”
She crossed the room.
Fast.
I stepped aside.
She picked up the envelope.
Her hands began shaking.
“Where was this?”
“Beside the box.”
“What box?”
I pointed.
That was when she saw the crest.
For several seconds, she did not move.
Then she whispered:
“No.”
Not angry.
Afraid.
She reached for the wooden box.
It was wedged behind the panel.
She pulled.
The warped panel shifted.
A small glass votive holder tipped from the shelf above.
I caught it.
Barely.
The rim was already cracked.
It broke across my palm.
I gasped.
Blood appeared instantly.
Vanessa turned.
“Oh God.”
I dropped the pieces into the empty candle tray.
“I’m fine.”
I was not.
A long shallow cut crossed my left palm.
Two smaller cuts ran along my fingers.
Vanessa grabbed the box again.
“Help me.”
I stared.
“With what?”
“Get it out.”
“Why?”
“Emily.”
“What is it?”
“Nothing.”
That answer made no sense.
I reached for the wall phone.
“I should call Father Michael.”
Vanessa caught my right wrist.
“Don’t.”
I looked at her hand around me.
“Let go.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Then explain.”
“Not here.”
She pulled me away from the phone.
My knuckles struck the open cabinet door.
Pain flashed.
I cried out.
She let go.
Then I reached again.
She caught both wrists this time.
Hard.
“Please.”
“Vanessa.”
“Do not call him.”
My right forearm pressed against the cabinet hinge.
The hinge had a sharp unfinished edge where old metal had split.
I twisted.
It scraped through my sleeve.
Then across skin.
Not deep.
Long.
Burning.
Blood began soaking fabric.
Vanessa stared.
Still she did not release me immediately.
That was what I remembered later.
Not the pain.
The delay.
Two seconds.
Maybe three.
Long enough for her to choose the box before my arm.
Then she let go.
I stepped backward.
My bruised knuckles throbbed.
Both wrists already reddening.
I wrapped my palm with an altar cloth because it was the cleanest thing within reach.
Vanessa said:
“I’m sorry.”
I stared.
She held the Marisa Bellini envelope.
“What is that?”
“Nothing you need to know.”
“It has your mother’s name.”
“I know.”
“Why is it here?”
Her face tightened.
“Because people make mistakes.”
“Your mother?”
“That is not what I said.”
Then she shoved the envelope inside her handbag.
I looked at the locked box.
“Does that belong to Mr. Moretti?”
“It belongs to the chapel.”
“Then we should call Father Michael.”
“No.”
“Why?”
She stepped closer.
“Because he will tell Luca.”
That was the point.
I stopped.
“Tell him what?”
Vanessa looked toward the open chapel doors.
No one else nearby.
Then:
“That my mother once came here for help.”
I waited.
“What kind?”
“I don’t know.”
I believed that.
Partly.
She knew enough to be afraid.
Not enough to be certain.
Then she said:
“She asked me years ago never to ask about it.”
“So leave the envelope.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because if Luca sees her name in that box, he’ll ask.”
“He doesn’t have to open it.”
“You don’t know him.”
I almost laughed.
Neither did she, apparently.
Then Vanessa wiped at my bleeding wrist with another altar cloth.
Too hard.
I pulled away.
“Stop.”
She looked at the blood.
For a second she seemed ashamed.
Then fear returned.
“I need the box out before Father Michael comes tomorrow.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“No.”
Her eyes sharpened.
“Emily.”
“I’m not helping you take something from the chapel.”
“You are household staff.”
“Yes.”
“Then do your job.”
“My job is not stealing chapel property.”
Her face changed.
That word.
Stealing.
Then she said:
“You need to be very careful about accusing me of that.”
“I’m not accusing. I’m saying I’m not moving it without permission.”
She looked at my cut hands.
Then:
“If you make this bigger than it is, Luca will want to know why you were digging through private chapel storage.”
“I was looking for candles.”
“Can you prove that?”
That was the point.
Not a threat to fire me.
Worse.
A question designed to make me doubt whether truth would sound convincing.
Then she said:
“You opened a private cabinet. You broke glass. You bled on chapel linens. If Father Michael complains, who looks careless?”
I stared.
She was turning accidents into leverage.
Then footsteps sounded outside.
Vanessa lowered her voice.
“Go wash your hands.”
“What about the box?”
“I’ll handle it.”
I should have stayed.
I did not.
My hands were bleeding.
I went to the staff washroom.
I cleaned cuts.
wrapped both palms.
taped my right forearm.
changed one torn cuff.
Then I returned twenty minutes later.
The cabinet was closed.
The box was gone.
So was Vanessa.
At five-twenty, I called Father Michael.
Not because I was brave.
Because I could not stop thinking about the crest.
He answered from a parish hospital visit.
I asked:
“Father, did you send someone for an old chapel box?”
Silence.
Then:
“What old box?”
My stomach dropped.
I described it.
He inhaled sharply.
“Emily, do not let anyone remove it.”
“It’s already gone.”
“Who has it?”
“I don’t know.”
Then:
“Is Vanessa Bellini there?”
I looked at the empty service hall.
“Yes.”
Another silence.
“Do not confront her.”
Too late.
Then Father Michael said:
“I’m calling Luca.”
“No.”
Why did I say no?
Fear.
If he called first, Vanessa would know it came through me.
Father Michael heard it.
“What happened?”
I looked at my bandages.
“Nothing I can’t explain.”
“That is not an answer.”
Then:
“I will call back in twenty minutes. Stay near other staff.”
He did.
By then dinner had started.
He said:
“I spoke to no one. I want you to tell Luca directly if you can do so safely.”
Then I saw Vanessa walking toward the chapel corridor with a man in black.
Clerical collar.
Silver cross.
The box hidden under his coat.
And suddenly I understood.
She had not moved the box to protect it.
She had arranged for someone to take it away.
I stepped in front of the chapel door.
Vanessa said:
“Move away.”
I said no.
Now Luca stood ten feet from us.
The fake priest held the box.
Luca looked at Vanessa.
“What is inside?”
She whispered:
“I don’t know.”
Then Father Michael’s voice came from behind us.
“Yes, you do.”
Everyone turned.
May you like
The real priest had arrived.
And he looked at the wooden box as though he had been hoping never to see it again.
