Chapter 6 - THE PRICE OF A DEAD GIRL'S NECKLACE
When Isabella learned who had purchased Lucia's necklace, she stopped speaking for nearly an hour.
She sat beside the garden window, holding an old photograph.
Lucia was sixteen in the picture.
Dark-haired.
Smiling.
The sapphire necklace rested against her collarbone.
Lorenzo stood nearby, unable to find words.
I understood why.
There are losses that become part of the architecture of a family.
You learn to walk around them.
You never stop noticing they're there.
Finally, Isabella whispered, “Beatrice knew.”
Lorenzo knelt beside her.
“What?”
“She knew what that necklace meant.”
Isabella looked up.
“She was at Lucia's birthday party.”
Lorenzo's expression hardened.
“She knew.”
Margaret Chen, the foundation's newly appointed independent attorney, explained that recovering the necklace would require establishing ownership and examining the auction transaction.
Lorenzo wanted to act immediately.
Isabella stopped him.
“No threats.”
He turned.
“Mama.”
“No.”
Her voice trembled.
“I don't want Lucia remembered because someone was frightened into returning her jewelry.”
Lorenzo looked at her.
Then nodded.
“All right.”
I watched him.
The most feared man in Chicago had just accepted an order from a seventy-four-year-old woman wearing slippers.
It made me love her more.
And it made me see him differently.
Meanwhile, the foundation's independent audit revealed additional suspicious transfers.
Some payments had gone to companies with connections to political consultants.
Others appeared tied to campaign-adjacent events and promotional services.
The precise legal significance remained under review.
But the central fact was becoming difficult to ignore.
Money intended for vulnerable children had been diverted into expensive contracts that provided little apparent benefit to those children.
One afternoon, Lorenzo showed me a spreadsheet.
I stared at it.
“Why are you showing me?”
“Because you asked where the donations went.”
“I'm a waitress.”
“You're someone who notices when people are being mistreated.”
I shook my head.
“That's not the same as understanding financial statements.”
He smiled.
“Then ask questions.”
So I did.
I asked why a children's foundation paid more for gala decorations than it distributed in emergency grants.
Why a consulting firm received a monthly retainer without detailed service reports.
Why the same families appeared on approval lists for months without payment dates.
Lorenzo answered what he could.
When he couldn't, he wrote the questions down for the auditors.
That evening, Toby found me reading about nonprofit financial reporting.
He stared.
“Are you becoming an accountant?”
“No.”
“Good. Because you look miserable.”
I threw a pillow at him.
He laughed.
Then coughed.
I froze.
He raised a hand.
“I'm fine. Just laughing.”
I nodded, trying to believe him.
Later, Lorenzo found me on the porch.
“Worried about Toby?”
“Always.”
He sat beside me.
For a while, we watched the garden lights.
Then he said, “Lucia used to make me laugh until I couldn't breathe.”
I turned.
He smiled sadly.
“She was terrible at jokes. Absolutely terrible.”
I laughed softly.
“What happened to her?”
“Heart disease.”
His voice tightened.
“She spent most of her final year in hospitals.”
I looked down.
“I'm sorry.”
He nodded.
“My mother started the foundation because she couldn't bear the idea of another family losing everything while trying to save a child.”
I looked toward the house.
“Then we have to fix it.”
Lorenzo turned.
“We?”
I met his eyes.
“Yes.”
He smiled.
And something between us shifted.
The following morning, Beatrice Vane held a press conference.
She accused Lorenzo of attempting to seize control of the foundation for personal and political reasons.
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Then she made an allegation that turned every camera toward her.
She claimed Sophie Clark had been paid to fabricate the ballroom confrontation.
