Chapter 10 - THE HOUSE WHERE HIS MOTHER SCREAMED|
Bellhaven stood above the Hudson River like a monument to everything the Coretti family refused to discuss.
Its stone towers rose against the midnight sky.
I could see dark windows through the trees.
A broken fountain stood near the circular driveway.
And beyond the house, an abandoned chapel watched over a garden swallowed by weeds.
Dominic sat beside me in the SUV.
He wore a black suit without a tie.
A small communication device rested beneath his collar.
His expression was controlled, but I could feel the tension in his body.
The closer we came to Bellhaven, the quieter he became.
“Have you been here since the fire?” I asked.
He shook his head.
“Once.”
“When?”
“The day they buried my mother.”
I looked at him.
“How old were you?”
“Fifteen.”
He stared through the windshield.
“I remember the smell.”
“What smell?”
“Wet stone.”
“Smoke.”
“And the roses my mother planted beside the greenhouse.”
I followed his gaze.
The greenhouse was barely visible behind an overgrown hedge.
Several panes of glass were missing.
Its metal frame had rusted.
But I could imagine what it once looked like.
A beautiful place filled with sunlight.
Somewhere Elena Coretti might have spent peaceful afternoons sewing while her children played nearby.
“Did your mother like flowers?” I asked.
Dominic nodded.
“White roses.”
He paused.
“She said they reminded her that beautiful things needed patience.”
My throat tightened.
“She sounds like my grandmother.”
He looked at me.
“Maybe that's why they became friends.”
We were silent for a moment.
Then Dominic reached for my hand.
“Clara.”
I turned.
“I owe you more than an apology.”
I swallowed.
“Dominic, not now.”
“I need to say this before we go inside.”
His voice was steady.
“I believed our marriage was something you agreed to because you needed protection.”
“I told myself giving you freedom and comfort was enough.”
I looked down.
“It wasn't.”
“I know.”
He exhaled.
“And when my family disrespected you, I wasn't there to stop it.”
“You didn't know everything they were doing.”
“I knew enough.”
His honesty hurt.
But it also made me listen.
“I knew Beatrice disliked you.”
“I knew some relatives questioned our marriage.”
“And instead of confronting them, I stayed away.”
I looked at him.
“Why?”
His eyes met mine.
“Because I thought distance would keep you safe.”
The familiar word made me tense.
He noticed.
“And because I was afraid.”
I blinked.
“Of what?”
He gave a small, bitter smile.
“Of wanting a marriage I didn't think I deserved.”
For several seconds, I couldn't speak.
Dominic looked toward the house.
“Everyone I loved growing up was taken from me.”
“My mother.”
“My father.”
“Friends who chose the wrong side of family disputes.”
His jaw tightened.
“By the time I met you, I'd convinced myself affection was a weakness other people could use.”
I studied him.
“And now?”
He turned back.
“Now I know pretending not to care is still a way of letting fear control you.”
My eyes filled.
He touched my bandaged hand.
“I don't know what happens to us after tonight.”
“I know I've given you every reason to walk away.”
“But if we survive, I want the chance to know you.”
“Not because of your father's debts.”
“Not because of an agreement.”
“Because you're Clara.”
I wanted to answer.
I wanted to tell him that despite everything, some part of me had already begun to love him.
But the house stood ahead.
And Isabella was inside.
So I squeezed his hand once.
“Then make sure we survive.”
He nodded.
“I intend to.”
At 11:52 p.m., the SUV stopped before Bellhaven's main entrance.
Dominic's security team had coordinated with investigators stationed beyond the property.
Their priority was rescuing Isabella, preserving evidence, and arresting those responsible.
But from where I sat, none of that felt reassuring.
The house seemed to be watching us.
The front doors opened.
A man in a dark suit stepped outside.
Victor Salvatore.
His silver hair was neatly combed.
He wore the same pleasant expression I'd seen at family dinners.
As if he were welcoming guests to an ordinary celebration.
“Dominic.”
His voice carried across the driveway.
“How good of you to come.”
Dominic stepped out first.
I followed.
Victor's eyes moved immediately to me.
“Mrs. Coretti.”
He smiled.
“You look tired.”
I stared at him.
“I've had a difficult wedding.”
His smile faltered.
Dominic placed his hand lightly against my back.
“Where's Isabella?”
Victor gestured toward the house.
“Safe.”
“Prove it.”
A moment later, a curtain moved in an upstairs window.
Isabella appeared.
Her face was pale.
She lifted one hand.
I nearly cried with relief.
But then I saw the person standing behind her.
Aunt Beatrice.
One hand rested on Isabella's shoulder.
The other held a small dark object.
A gun.
Dominic's entire body stiffened.
Victor noticed.
“Your aunt would prefer a peaceful conversation.”
“Then tell her to put the weapon down.”
Victor sighed.
“Dominic, you've always been so emotional about family.”
I almost laughed.
The nerve of the man.
He had spent years helping destroy that family.
And now he was accusing Dominic of caring too much.
Victor looked at me.
“You brought what we requested?”
I held up my small clutch.
“Everything I found.”
His eyes sharpened.
“Show me.”
“Not until I see Isabella.”
Victor's smile faded.
“Clara, this isn't a negotiation.”
I met his gaze.
“Then why am I here?”
For a moment, he seemed genuinely surprised.
Perhaps he expected me to tremble.
Perhaps he expected the quiet woman from the kitchen to obey without asking questions.
But fear had already taken enough from me.
I wasn't going to offer it the rest.
Victor turned toward Dominic.
“Your wife has developed a remarkable attitude.”
Dominic answered calmly.
“She always had one.”
“You simply never bothered to listen.”
Victor's expression hardened.
Then he opened the door.
“Come inside.”
The foyer smelled of dust and old wood.
A grand staircase curved toward the second floor.
Faded portraits lined the walls.
Elena's painting hung above a marble fireplace.
I recognized her immediately.
The same brown eyes as Dominic.
The same gentle expression as Isabella.
But unlike the portraits in the city mansion, this one hadn't been removed.
Someone had slashed the canvas.
A jagged cut ran across Elena's face.
Dominic stopped.
I saw his hands curl into fists.
Victor followed his gaze.
“Unfortunate damage.”
Dominic said nothing.
We entered the old drawing room.
Beatrice waited beside the fireplace.
She'd changed out of her wedding clothes.
Her pink gown was gone.
Now she wore a dark blue dress and a string of pearls.
Isabella sat in a chair near the window.
Her wedding gown shimmered beneath the dim lights.
Her wrists were bound in front of her.
When she saw me, she began crying.
“Clara!”
I took a step forward.
Victor blocked my path.
“Not yet.”
Dominic's voice became dangerous.
“Move.”
Victor hesitated.
Then Beatrice raised her hand.
“Let her approach.”
I crossed the room and knelt beside Isabella.
Her wrists were bruised.
But she was breathing.
She was alive.
I gently touched her cheek.
“I'm here.”
“I'm sorry,” she whispered.
“Don't.”
Her eyes moved toward my bandaged fingers.
“You ruined your hands fixing my dress.”
I smiled through tears.
“They'll heal.”
She shook her head.
“I didn't even thank you.”
“You don't have to.”
“Yes, I do.”
Her voice cracked.
“You gave me something beautiful when everyone else was lying to me.”
I hugged her carefully.
Behind me, Beatrice cleared her throat.
“How touching.”
I stood.
Dominic moved beside me.
“Release her.”
Beatrice smiled.
“When I have what I want.”
I looked at her.
“The evidence?”
Her eyes sharpened.
“So you did find it.”
I reached into my clutch.
But instead of the papers, I removed the silver thimble.
Beatrice's expression changed instantly.
For the first time, her confidence cracked.
“Where did you get that?”
“My grandmother.”
She took a step forward.
“That belongs to Elena.”
“I know.”
Beatrice's face went pale.
I turned the thimble beneath the light.
“Grandma kept more than memories inside it.”
Victor stepped closer.
“What are you talking about?”
I looked directly at Beatrice.
“The woman you thought died with your secret left something behind.”
Beatrice froze.
“What woman?”
“Margaret Ellis.”
Her mouth opened.
No sound came out.
Dominic watched her carefully.
“Does that name frighten you, Aunt Beatrice?”
She recovered quickly.
“Your mother had no sister.”
I shook my head.
“She did.”
“And she's alive.”
Beatrice's hand began trembling.
Victor stared at her.
“You told me she died.”
Beatrice snapped toward him.
“Be quiet.”
It was the first sign that they weren't as united as they appeared.
I remembered what Margaret Ellis had said.
Beatrice wasn't acting alone.
But accomplices could turn against each other when the truth became too heavy.
I took a breath.
“Elena left evidence in the chapel.”
Victor's eyes moved toward the door.
Beatrice noticed.
“Don't even think about it.”
He turned.
“What?”
“You know what I'm talking about.”
Dominic looked between them.
“What happened in that basement?”
Beatrice's smile disappeared.
For a moment, her face looked decades older.
Then she whispered, “Your mother should have minded her own business.”
Dominic took one step forward.
“My mother died because of you.”
Beatrice lifted her chin.
“Your mother died because she couldn't understand how this family survived.”
“By stealing?”
“By doing what was necessary!”
Her voice echoed through the room.
I felt Isabella flinch beside me.
Beatrice looked toward Dominic.
“Your father was weak.”
“He wanted to change everything.”
“He wanted to cut ties with the people who made the Coretti name powerful.”
Dominic stared at her.
“He wanted to stop the violence.”
“He wanted to destroy the family,” she snapped.
“And Elena supported him.”
I heard something change in her voice.
Not grief.
Not remorse.
Resentment.
She had spent twenty-two years blaming the dead for refusing to become like her.
Victor suddenly moved toward the doorway.
Beatrice turned.
“Stop!”
He froze.
Then, from somewhere beneath the floor, we heard a metallic crash.
Everyone went silent.
Victor's face drained of color.
Beatrice stared toward the hallway.
“What was that?”
A second crash followed.
Then a voice rose from below.
A woman's voice.
Clear.
Angry.
And unmistakably alive.
“BEATRICE!”
Mrs. Alvarez had described Elena's sister as quiet and cautious.
But there was nothing quiet about the woman standing at the bottom of the staircase.
Margaret Ellis had entered Bellhaven.
She was sixty-four.
Her silver hair was tied back.
Her coat was covered in dust.
And in her hands she carried an old leather ledger.
Beatrice staggered backward.
“No.”
Margaret looked directly at her.
“You've spent twenty-two years burying my sister's voice.”
May you like
Then she raised the ledger.
“But tonight, Beatrice, Elena is finally going to be heard.”
