Part 2 My husband had just snapped my arm inside our apartment when I locked myself in the bathroom and called the most feared Mafia Boss 005
The bathroom door did not explode from its hinges the way Lena feared it would.
It gave in with a wounded groan, the frame cracking just enough for the lock to tear loose and swing inward. The sudden movement made her shrink back against the bathtub, her knees slipping on the cold tile. Her phone slid from her trembling hand and clattered near the sink.
For one frozen second, her husband filled the doorway.
Derek was breathing hard, one hand braced against the broken frame, his shirt wrinkled, his eyes bright with anger and drink. The apartment light behind him cast his face in shadow, turning the man she had once married into someone almost unrecognizable.
Almost.
That was the worst part. She could still see pieces of him.
The charming smile he used at office parties. The voice that had once promised her a future. The man who brought her soup when she had the flu during their first winter together. Those memories flashed through her mind like old photographs dropped into water, the images blurring until they no longer made sense.
“What did you do?” he demanded.
Lena tried to answer, but pain stole the words from her mouth.
Derek stepped into the bathroom, his gaze falling to the phone on the floor. His expression shifted.
For the first time that night, something like uncertainty crossed his face.
“Who did you call?”
Lena’s lips parted.
She could still hear Vincent Moretti’s voice in her head.
Stay alive for eight minutes.
Eight minutes.
It sounded so small when he said it. Eight minutes was nothing. It was the length of a coffee break. The time it took to wash dishes at the diner. The distance between one train stop and the next.
But trapped inside that bathroom with her arm broken and Derek blocking the only way out, eight minutes felt like a lifetime.
“I asked you a question,” Derek said.
He took another step forward.
Lena pulled herself tighter against the tub, cradling her injured arm as carefully as she could. She knew if she screamed, the neighbors might hear. She also knew they had heard before.
Once, Mrs. Alvarez from across the hall had knocked after a fight and asked if everything was all right. Derek had answered the door with his calm, embarrassed smile.
“We dropped a shelf,” he had said.
Mrs. Alvarez had looked past him and met Lena’s eyes for half a second. Lena had smiled with a split lip and said, “I’m fine.”
After that, no one knocked anymore.
“I called someone,” Lena whispered.
Derek laughed, but it sounded forced. “Who? The police?”
She did not answer.
He bent down and picked up the phone. The screen was cracked from the fall, but the call had ended. Derek stared at the number, then at her.
His laughter disappeared.
“What is this?”
Lena saw the moment he understood that he did not recognize the number. In Derek’s world, every person had a category: useful, beneath him, or afraid of him. Anyone outside those categories made him nervous.
He turned the phone in his hand as if it might confess.
“Who is Vincent Moretti?”
The name settled in the small bathroom like smoke.
Lena could not stop herself from flinching.
Derek noticed.
His face changed again, the anger returning, but underneath it was something else now. Not fear. Not yet. But the beginning of it.
“You called Moretti?” he said slowly. “Are you out of your mind?”
Lena kept her back against the tub. Her heart pounded so loudly she barely heard the rain tapping against the apartment windows.
Derek looked toward the hallway, then back at her. “You don’t even know what kind of people those are.”
For some reason, that made her laugh.
It was a tiny sound, broken and breathless, but it surprised them both.
Derek stared at her.
“What’s funny?”
Lena swallowed. “You’re telling me to be afraid of dangerous men?”
His jaw tightened.
For a moment, she thought he might shout again. Instead, he stepped back and ran a hand through his hair. He glanced at the phone, then toward the front door. His mind was working quickly now. That was Derek’s gift. He could lie faster than most people could breathe.
“Listen to me,” he said, lowering his voice. “You made a mistake. A very stupid mistake. But we can fix it.”
Lena stared at him.
He crouched in front of her, careful not to come close enough for her to kick him. There was sweat along his hairline.
“You’re hurt,” he said.
She almost laughed again.
He said it as though the broken arm had appeared by accident. As though pain had simply wandered into their home and chosen her.
“I’ll take you to the hospital,” Derek continued. “We’ll say you slipped. You know how it looks if you bring outsiders into this? You think Moretti cares about you? He doesn’t. Men like him use people. That’s all.”
Lena’s gaze drifted to the shattered doorframe.
“How long has it been?” she whispered.
“What?”
She closed her eyes.
Eight minutes.
Surely one had passed.
Maybe two.
Derek stood again. “Get up.”
“I can’t.”
“You can.” His voice sharpened. “And you will.”
He reached for her good arm.
The doorbell rang.
The sound was so ordinary, so delicate, that neither of them moved.
It chimed once through the apartment, bright and polite.
Derek froze.
Lena opened her eyes.
The bell rang again.
Derek took one slow step backward. His gaze darted from Lena to the hallway, calculating, adjusting, preparing. He held up a finger.
“Not a word,” he whispered.
Then he walked out of the bathroom.
Lena heard him moving through the apartment. His footsteps crossed the living room. A drawer opened. Something inside it shifted. He muttered under his breath, then paused near the front door.
The bell rang a third time.
Derek’s voice changed before he spoke. It became smooth, controlled, almost friendly.
“Who is it?”
A quiet answer came from the other side, too low for Lena to make out.
Derek hesitated.
Then the front door opened.
There was no shouting.
No crashing.
No dramatic entrance.
Just the soft murmur of voices in the hallway, followed by a silence so complete that Lena felt it in her bones.
A moment later, footsteps entered the apartment.
Not one pair.
Several.
Lena remained on the bathroom floor, pressed against the bathtub, unable to move. Her whole body had begun to shake. It was not only fear now. It was the shock catching up with her, the pain sharpening again, the terrible release of knowing that someone had come and not knowing what that meant.
A tall man appeared in the bathroom doorway.
Vincent Moretti was exactly as she remembered and nothing like she remembered.
At the diner, he had worn a dark coat and sat beneath fluorescent lights, his presence contained by the booth and the cup of black coffee in front of him. Here, in her narrow hallway, he seemed larger, not because he was physically imposing in an obvious way, but because everything around him seemed to quiet itself.
His suit was dark and unwrinkled despite the rain. His black hair was damp at the edges. His face was calm, but his eyes moved quickly, taking in the broken door, the phone on the floor, the angle of her arm, the fear she had tried and failed to hide.
Behind him stood two men she recognized vaguely from the diner, both silent, both careful not to crowd the doorway.
Vincent looked at her, and for a moment the apartment disappeared.
“Lena,” he said.
Her name in his voice was not pitying. It was not shocked.
It was steady.
That steadiness nearly undid her.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
His brow lowered slightly. “For what?”
She did not know how to answer.
For calling. For needing help. For bleeding on the tile. For being the kind of woman who had hidden a black card in her purse and still waited until her arm was broken to use it.
Vincent stepped inside the bathroom, slowly enough that she could see each movement before it happened.
“May I come closer?” he asked.
The question confused her. Derek had never asked permission to enter her space. He took it as if marriage had turned her body and fear and silence into property.
Lena nodded.
Vincent crouched in front of her, leaving distance between them. He looked at her arm but did not touch it.
“An ambulance is two minutes out,” he said. “A doctor I trust is meeting us at the hospital. You’re going to be treated properly.”
Lena tried to nod again, but her vision blurred.
Derek’s voice came from the living room. “This is a misunderstanding.”
Vincent did not look away from Lena.
“Is it?”
The question was for her.
Lena’s throat tightened.
Derek stepped closer to the bathroom. One of Vincent’s men shifted, not aggressively, only enough to block him from entering.
Derek raised both hands. “I’m not trying to cause trouble. My wife gets emotional. She slipped, panicked, and called someone she shouldn’t have. I don’t know what she told you, but—”
“She told me you broke her arm,” Vincent said.
His tone did not rise. That made it worse.
Derek gave a small, disbelieving laugh. “And you believe that?”
Vincent finally turned his head.
“I believe her.”
Two words.
No speech. No display. No demand for proof before compassion.
Lena closed her eyes, and tears slid down her face before she could stop them.
Derek’s mask cracked.
“You don’t know anything about our marriage,” he said. “You walk in here like you own the place, but this is between me and my wife.”
Vincent stood.
The bathroom seemed smaller with him upright.
“No,” he said. “This is between Lena and the life she chooses after tonight.”
Derek stared at him.
The sirens began faintly in the distance.
Lena heard them through the rain, approaching block by block. Her body reacted before her mind did. Relief, terror, shame, disbelief—all of it tangled inside her until she felt sick.
Vincent turned back to her.
“When the paramedics come in, they’ll ask what happened,” he said. “You can tell them the truth. You can say nothing until you’re ready. No one here will speak for you.”
Lena looked past him toward the living room, where Derek stood stiff and pale.
For years, silence had felt like survival. The truth had seemed too dangerous to hold in her mouth. But now, as red and blue light flickered faintly against the rain-streaked windows, she understood something that should have been simple.
Silence had not protected her.
It had protected him.
The paramedics arrived quickly. Two officers came with them, their expressions cautious as they entered the apartment and saw the broken bathroom door. Derek began talking before anyone asked him a question. He was charming at first, then offended, then wounded. He explained that Lena had been under stress. He suggested she was clumsy. He mentioned medication she had never taken and arguments she had never started.
Lena sat on the closed toilet seat while a paramedic stabilized her arm. Every touch sent pain flashing white behind her eyes, but the woman working on her had kind hands and a voice like warm tea.
“You’re doing well,” the paramedic said. “Keep breathing with me.”
Lena focused on her.
Not Derek.
Not the officers.
Not even Vincent, who had moved to the hallway and remained there without interfering.
When an officer knelt nearby and asked what happened, Lena looked down at her lap.
Her right hand was smeared with blood from where she had cut herself on the splintered door. Her wedding ring was still on her finger. It looked absurdly delicate, a tiny circle pretending it had ever meant safety.
“My husband broke my arm,” she said.
The room went quiet.
Derek stopped talking.
Lena lifted her eyes.
“He grabbed me during an argument,” she continued, her voice trembling but audible. “He squeezed my wrist. Then he twisted my arm until it broke.”
Derek’s mouth opened.
One officer turned toward him. “Sir, step over here.”
“This is insane,” Derek snapped. “She’s lying.”
Lena flinched at the word, but the paramedic touched her shoulder gently.
“Look at me,” the woman said. “Just me.”
Lena did.
The apartment dissolved into fragments after that. Questions. Voices. The careful movement of her body onto a stretcher. The ceiling passing overhead. Rain on her face for one second as they carried her out of the building.
Neighbors stood in their doorways.
Mrs. Alvarez was there, one hand pressed to her mouth.
Lena expected shame to swallow her whole.
Instead, the older woman stepped forward and touched her foot through the blanket.
“Mija,” she whispered, eyes shining. “I’m sorry.”
Lena had no strength to answer, but she held the woman’s gaze until the elevator doors closed.
In the ambulance, the paramedic asked about pain levels, allergies, medical history. Lena answered when she could. When she could not, she watched the city lights smear across the small rear windows and tried to understand that she was leaving the apartment.
Leaving.
The word felt too large to trust.
Vincent did not ride in the ambulance. She had not expected him to. Still, when they arrived at the hospital and the doors opened, he was already there beneath the emergency entrance awning, rain shining on his coat.
He did not approach until the paramedics had rolled her inside and nurses had taken over. Even then, he stayed several feet away, speaking quietly with a doctor whose face softened when he looked at Lena.
“This is Dr. Halpern,” Vincent said when they reached a curtained room. “He’ll make sure your injury is handled carefully.”
Dr. Halpern gave Vincent a brief look. “I would have done that regardless.”
A faint shadow of something almost like amusement crossed Vincent’s face. “I know.”
That exchange told Lena more than a dozen explanations could have. These men knew each other, but the doctor was not afraid to challenge him. Vincent accepted it without offense.
Dr. Halpern examined her arm, ordered imaging, and explained every step before it happened. The fracture was serious but treatable. She would need the bone set, a cast, follow-up appointments, and rest. The words floated around her, medical and practical, giving shape to the pain.
A nurse cleaned the cut on her hand.
Another brought a warm blanket.
Someone asked if she had a safe place to go.
Lena nearly said yes out of habit.
Then she remembered the splintered bathroom door. Derek’s shoes in the hall. His cologne on the bedroom dresser. The framed wedding photo where she looked young and hopeful beside a man who had not yet shown her every version of himself.
“No,” she said softly. “I don’t.”
The social worker arrived after midnight.
Her name was Mara, and she wore green-framed glasses and carried a folder filled with resources. She did not rush. She did not speak to Lena as though she were fragile glass or foolish for staying as long as she had.
She simply sat beside the bed and said, “Tonight we focus on immediate safety. Tomorrow can be tomorrow.”
Lena liked her for that.
Vincent waited outside the room during those conversations. Through the gap in the curtain, Lena sometimes saw his silhouette in the hallway, still and patient. Men came and went to speak to him. He answered in low tones. Once, his eyes met hers through the opening.
He did not smile.
But he was still there.
After her arm was set and the first heavy waves of pain medication pulled her toward sleep, Lena woke to find him sitting in the chair near the wall.
The hospital room was dim. Rain tapped softly against the window. A television mounted in the corner played without sound, casting blue light over the foot of her bed.
Vincent had removed his coat. His sleeves were still buttoned at the cuffs. He looked less like a feared name whispered across the city and more like a man who had spent too many hours awake.
“You should go home,” Lena murmured.
His gaze lifted from the floor. “I will.”
“You’ve been here for hours.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Vincent studied her for a long moment.
“Because you called.”
It was such a simple answer that she did not know what to do with it.
Lena looked at the cast now covering her arm. It was white and heavy, resting across her body like proof she could not deny. Her fingers were swollen. Her wedding ring had been removed before the swelling worsened, placed in a small plastic bag on the table beside her.
She stared at it.
“I thought I loved him,” she said.
Vincent said nothing.
“At the beginning, I mean. He was kind. Or maybe he was good at seeming kind.” She swallowed. “I keep trying to find the exact moment everything changed, but I can’t. It was little things. Comments. Apologies that turned into accusations. Flowers after he scared me. Promises after he broke them.”
Her eyes stung.
“I feel stupid.”
“You’re not.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know enough.”
There was no softness in his voice, exactly, but there was certainty. Lena found herself holding onto it.
She turned her head on the pillow. “Why did you give me that card?”
Vincent looked toward the window.
For a while, she thought he would not answer.
“When I saw you at the diner,” he said, “you apologized six times for spilling coffee you never spilled on me.”
Lena blinked.
“I spilled it near the table.”
“You apologized like you expected punishment.” His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “I recognized that.”
Something in his tone caught her attention.
“You recognized it from what?”
Vincent’s face closed.
The silence between them lengthened.
Lena thought of the rumors she had heard at the diner. Vincent Moretti had inherited power young. Vincent Moretti never forgave betrayal. Vincent Moretti’s family history was written in court records and newspaper clippings and whispers passed between people who thought whispers were safer than facts.
But sitting there in the hospital light, he seemed less like a rumor and more like a locked room.
“My mother,” he said at last.
Lena did not move.
Vincent’s eyes remained on the rain-dark window. “My father was admired by men who never saw him at home. People called him disciplined. Traditional. Strong.” His mouth tightened. “At home, those words meant something else.”
Lena’s chest ached.
“What happened to her?”
“She left too late,” he said.
The answer was quiet, but it landed heavily.
Lena understood that there were stories inside those four words. Years of them. Maybe a whole childhood shaped around locked doors and footsteps in hallways.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
Vincent turned back to her. “Don’t be. Just don’t go back.”
It was not an order. Not exactly.
It sounded more like a plea he had disguised as advice.
Lena looked away because the emotion in her throat had become too large.
“I don’t know how not to,” she admitted. “Everything I own is there. My clothes. My papers. The necklace my grandmother gave me. My tips from the diner are hidden inside a flour tin because Derek kept checking my purse.”
“We can arrange for your belongings to be collected legally,” Vincent said.
Lena gave him a tired look. “Legally?”
One corner of his mouth shifted. “Yes, Lena. Legally.”
Despite everything, a weak laugh escaped her.
It hurt her ribs, but it felt strangely good.
Vincent’s expression eased for the first time that night.
“I’m serious,” he said. “Mara can help you request an escort to retrieve essentials. You’ll have options.”
Options.
The word felt unfamiliar.
Derek had reduced her world until every choice became a calculation around his mood. What to cook. What to wear. Whether to answer a text. Whether to breathe too loudly when he was angry.
Now people kept saying options as if doors existed everywhere.
Lena wanted to believe them.
But wanting was dangerous.
By morning, the rain had stopped.
Gray light seeped through the hospital blinds. Lena had slept in broken pieces, waking to pain, voices in the hallway, and the constant awareness that the world had continued while her life changed shape.
Mara returned with coffee she was not technically supposed to bring and a list of safe temporary housing options. The police had taken Derek into custody for questioning, she explained carefully. There would be legal steps if Lena chose them. Protective orders. Statements. Follow-ups. None of it would be simple, but none of it had to be done alone.
Lena listened, absorbing what she could.
Vincent was gone by then.
On the bedside table, beside the plastic bag containing her wedding ring, sat a folded note.
She opened it with her good hand.
The handwriting was the same as the card.
You do not owe anyone your fear.
Underneath was a phone number for a woman named Elena Ruiz, an attorney.
No signature.
Lena folded the note again and held it against the blanket.
Two days later, she left the hospital through a side entrance with Mara beside her and a borrowed coat over her shoulders. Her arm throbbed beneath the cast, but the medicine dulled the worst of it. The city smelled washed clean after the storm.
A black car waited at the curb.
Lena stopped walking.
Mara followed her gaze. “Mr. Moretti offered transportation. You don’t have to accept it.”
The driver stepped out. He was older, with silver hair and a kind, weathered face. He did not open the door immediately, as if he understood that choice mattered.
Lena looked at Mara. “Is it safe?”
Mara considered the question rather than giving an automatic answer. Lena appreciated that too.
“I think,” Mara said, “that safety is not only about who is dangerous. Sometimes it’s about who respects your no.”
Lena looked back at the car.
The driver nodded politely. “Miss Hart. My name is Carlo. I was asked to take you wherever you choose.”
Wherever you choose.
Not home.
Not to him.
Wherever.
Lena took a breath. “There’s a shelter on Mara’s list.”
Carlo opened the rear door. “Then that’s where we’ll go.”
The shelter was located in a converted brownstone on a quiet street lined with bare trees and iron fences. It did not look like the desperate place Lena had feared. Inside, it smelled of laundry soap, soup, and old wood. A woman at the desk welcomed her without asking for the story before offering a room.
The room was small but clean. A narrow bed. A dresser. A lamp. A window facing the brick wall of the neighboring building.
Lena set her borrowed bag on the bed and stood in the center of the room.
No footsteps followed her.
No one shouted from the hallway.
No television blared in anger.
For the first time in years, silence did not feel like waiting for something bad.
It felt like space.
That night, she cried harder than she had cried in the bathroom. Not because she was more afraid, but because her body finally seemed to understand that it could collapse. She cried for the woman she had been before Derek. For the friends she had stopped calling because explaining became too tiring. For every shift at the diner where she smiled through pain and called it professionalism. For the apartment she hated and missed because it had been the only home she knew.
Then, eventually, she slept.
The days that followed were not dramatic.
That surprised her.
Some part of Lena had expected freedom to arrive like a sunrise, warm and undeniable. Instead, it came in small, awkward moments.
Signing forms with her wrong hand.
Learning how to shower with a cast.
Meeting with Elena Ruiz, the attorney Vincent had recommended, who had sharp eyes, a soft scarf, and no patience for Derek’s version of events.
Calling the diner to explain she could not work for a while.
Her manager, Sam, went quiet when she told him enough of the truth. Then he said, “Your job will be here when you’re ready. Don’t worry about that.”
She had not expected kindness to make her suspicious.
But it did.
Every generous word felt like a bill she would not be able to pay.
On the fourth day, a package arrived at the shelter. Lena found it waiting at the front desk after breakfast, wrapped in brown paper with her name written neatly across the top.
Inside was her grandmother’s necklace.
A small gold locket on a thin chain.
Lena’s breath caught.
She had hidden it in the back of her sock drawer at the apartment. Derek knew what it meant to her. Once, during an argument, he had held it in his fist and told her sentimental things made people weak.
There was no note in the package.
Just the necklace, polished clean, resting on a square of dark velvet.
Lena carried it upstairs and sat on the bed for a long time before putting it on.
That afternoon, Elena called.
“I have news,” the attorney said. “Your essentials were retrieved from the apartment with an officer present. Most of your documents are accounted for. Some cash was found in a kitchen container. It will be returned to you.”
Lena touched the locket. “And Derek?”
There was a pause.
“He posted bail this morning.”
The room seemed to tilt.
“Oh.”
“He is prohibited from contacting you under the temporary order,” Elena said. “That includes calls, messages, showing up at your workplace, or using third parties.”
Lena nodded, even though Elena could not see her.
“Do you think he’ll listen?”
Another pause.
“I think we prepare as if he might not.”
That was honest, at least.
After the call, Lena went downstairs to the shelter’s small garden. Winter had left most of it bare, but someone had hung wind chimes from the fence. They moved gently in the afternoon air, making a sound like distant glass.
She sat on a bench with her cast across her lap and tried to breathe.
A week ago, she had believed the worst thing that could happen was Derek finding her.
Now she understood the worst thing might be wanting to go back because the unknown felt too wide.
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
Her stomach clenched.
For several seconds, she watched it vibrate in her palm.
Then she answered without speaking.
“Miss Hart?” said a woman’s voice. “My name is Sofia Moretti.”
Lena sat up slowly.
“I’m Vincent’s sister.”
The name Moretti carried a different weight in a woman’s voice.
Lena looked toward the shelter door. “How did you get this number?”
“My brother gave it to me,” Sofia said. “Before you get angry, he asked me to call only once. If you don’t want contact, I’ll respect that.”
Lena did not know what she felt. Anger, maybe. Curiosity. Exhaustion.
“Why are you calling?”
There was a soft sound on the other end, like Sofia had exhaled through her nose.
“Because Vincent is very good at rescuing people from burning buildings and very bad at explaining why he ran into the fire.”
Lena said nothing.
“My brother helped you because he wanted to,” Sofia continued. “But there is something you should know before Derek or anyone else tries to twist it.”
Lena gripped the phone tighter.
“What?”
“Vincent did not meet you by chance at the diner.”
The garden seemed to go still around her.
Lena’s eyes fixed on the bare branches above the fence.
“What does that mean?”
Sofia was quiet for a moment.
“It means he went there to see you.”
Lena stood too quickly, pain pulsing through her arm. “Why?”
“I think he should be the one to answer that.”
“No,” Lena said, surprising herself with the firmness in her voice. “You called me. You tell me.”
Another pause.
Then Sofia said, “Because your grandmother once saved our mother’s life.”
Lena stopped breathing.
Her grandmother had died when Lena was sixteen. To Lena, she had been warm kitchens, lavender soap, Sunday hymns, and hands that could sew anything. She had never mentioned the Moretti family. She had never mentioned Vincent, or his mother, or anything dangerous hiding inside the past.
“That’s impossible,” Lena whispered.
“It isn’t,” Sofia said gently. “Her name was Ruth Hart, wasn’t it?”
Lena closed her eyes.
Ruth Hart.
The locket at her throat suddenly felt heavier.
“My grandmother was a seamstress,” Lena said. “She lived in Queens. She made dresses. She didn’t know people like you.”
“She knew our mother when both of them were young women with nowhere safe to go.”
Lena’s mind filled with fragments: her grandmother humming at the stove, warning Lena never to ignore a locked drawer in another person’s house, keeping old letters tied with blue ribbon in a cedar box.
“What are you saying?” Lena asked.
“I’m saying there’s more to why Vincent gave you that card,” Sofia said. “And more to why Derek married you than you know.”
The words moved through Lena like cold water.
“Derek?” she said. “What does Derek have to do with my grandmother?”
Before Sofia could answer, the shelter door opened behind Lena.
Mara stepped into the garden, her face tight with concern. In her hand was an envelope.
“Lena,” she said carefully, “this just arrived for you.”
Lena lowered the phone slightly.
The envelope was cream-colored, expensive, and sealed with no return address. Her name was written across the front in Derek’s handwriting.
Her pulse began to pound.
“That’s not possible,” she whispered. “He isn’t allowed to contact me.”
Mara’s eyes darkened. “I know.”
Lena’s phone crackled softly.
Sofia’s voice came through, distant but urgent. “Lena? What happened?”
Lena stared at the envelope.
Then she saw the corner was already torn, as if someone had opened it and resealed it badly. Inside, folded around a single sheet of paper, was something small and metallic.
With shaking fingers, Mara tipped it into Lena’s palm.
A key.
Old brass.
Familiar.
Lena knew it instantly, though she had not seen it in years.
It belonged to her grandmother’s cedar box.
The one that had disappeared the week after the funeral.
Lena unfolded the paper.
There were only seven words written inside.
Ask Moretti what Ruth Hart stole.
END OF PART 2 – LIKE, SHARE AND COMMENT “”THE ENTIRE STORY”” IF YOU WANT TO READ THE FULL STORY
