Chapter 2 - The Price of a Diamond Ring
By the time the shooting stopped, Grandma's favorite ceramic rooster had lost its head, three kitchen windows were shattered, and I was lying beneath Vincent Moretti wondering whether my family qualified for a refund on the world's worst morning.
Outside, engines roared.
Men shouted.
Then came silence.
Vincent lifted his head.
"Are you hurt?"
I shook mine.
He checked me anyway.
His hands moved carefully over my shoulders and arms, searching for injuries.
"I'm fine," I whispered.
His eyes were dark with anger.
"You're sure?"
"Yes."
He looked toward Grandma.
"Ruth?"
Grandma emerged from behind the stove holding a cast-iron skillet.
"If those fools come back, I'll show them what happens when they interrupt breakfast."
Vincent stared at her.
For a brief moment, I thought he might laugh.
Instead, he nodded respectfully.
"Understood."
Marco rushed inside.
"Vehicle escaped east. We have the plate from the traffic camera down the road."
"Any casualties?"
"None."
"Good. Secure the perimeter."
I sat up.
"Excuse me. Can somebody explain why people are shooting at my kitchen?"
Vincent offered me his hand.
I ignored it and stood on my own.
"Mr. Moretti."
"Vincent."
"I really don't care what your mother calls you right now."
His eyebrows lifted.
"You have every reason to be angry."
"Angry?"
I gestured toward the broken window.
"My grandmother makes peach preserves in this kitchen! People come here for pancakes! The most dangerous thing that's ever happened in this room was when Tess accidentally set the toaster on fire!"
"That was one time," Tess protested.
Vincent removed his jacket and handed it to me.
"You're shaking."
"I'm furious."
"You can be both."
I wanted to argue.
Unfortunately, he was right.
My hands were trembling.
I wrapped the jacket around my shoulders.
It smelled faintly of cedarwood and expensive cologne.
Grandma watched us from the stove.
"You're going to need to tell us everything, young man."
Vincent glanced at the overturned chairs.
"Somewhere more secure."
"There's a cellar," Grandma said.
He immediately looked interested.
"How many entrances?"
"Two. One through the kitchen, one behind the barn."
Vincent's eyes narrowed.
"Why does your cellar have a second entrance?"
Grandma shrugged.
"My husband didn't trust the government."
"Grandma!"
"What? He didn't."
Vincent studied her for a moment.
Then he said, "Your husband was a smart man."
Twenty minutes later, we sat around an old wooden table in the cellar while armed men guarded the property.
Vincent had ordered coffee for everyone.
Grandma refused it.
"If you're going to tell me something horrible about my husband, I need tea."
Vincent waited until she sat down.
Then he placed the ring between us.
"Twenty-eight years ago, my father was ambushed outside a warehouse in Louisville. He was badly injured. Two of his men were killed."
I listened silently.
"Robert Bennett was driving a delivery truck that night. He found my father bleeding beside the road."
Grandma looked away.
"He brought him here," Vincent continued. "He hid him for eleven days. Your grandmother treated his wounds."
I stared at Grandma.
"You knew?"
She closed her eyes.
"Your grandfather told me the man had enemies."
"Enemies?"
Vincent spoke quietly.
"My father was the head of the Moretti organization."
Grandma opened her eyes.
"I didn't ask what he did for a living."
I stared at her.
"You hid a Mafia boss in our cellar?"
"He was injured, Daisy."
"Grandma!"
"Well, what was I supposed to do? Leave him to die?"
Vincent smiled faintly.
"Your grandmother has always been consistent."
I turned back to him.
"What happened afterward?"
"My father recovered. He offered Robert money. Your grandfather refused."
That sounded exactly like Grandpa.
"He would never take money for helping someone."
"Correct. So my father gave him protection instead."
I frowned.
"Protection from whom?"
Vincent leaned forward.
"That is what we're trying to discover."
He opened a leather folder.
Inside were photographs of the inn, copies of property records, and several old newspaper articles.
One photograph showed Grandpa standing beside a younger man with dark hair.
Vincent's father.
Another showed the two of them beside a black sedan.
And a third—
I froze.
"Who's that?"
Vincent followed my gaze.
The photograph showed Grandpa, Vincent's father, and a third man standing outside our barn.
The third man had a narrow face, silver hair, and a distinctive scar across his chin.
I recognized him immediately.
"That's Charles Whitcomb."
Grandma gasped.
Vincent's expression became sharp.
"You're certain?"
"Yes. He looks older now, but that's him."
He picked up the photograph.
"Interesting."
I frowned.
"Why?"
"Because Charles Whitcomb told my investigators he'd never met your grandfather."
Grandma whispered, "Liar."
I looked at her.
"Grandma?"
She stared at the photograph.
"Charles came here after your grandfather died. He offered to handle the property taxes. Said it would be easier for me."
"And?"
"I trusted him."
Her voice broke.
"For twelve years, I trusted him."
Vincent examined another document.
"Whitcomb arranged a series of loans against the property. Most were refinanced under increasingly unfavorable terms."
I felt sick.
"Are you saying he deliberately buried us in debt?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
Vincent looked at the photograph again.
"That is the important question."
I remembered every late notice.
Every sleepless night.
Every time Grandma had quietly put groceries back on the supermarket shelf because we couldn't afford them.
And suddenly, none of it felt accidental.
"How much do we owe?" I asked.
Vincent told me.
The number made my stomach twist.
Then he said, "I can pay it."
I stared at him.
"No."
"Daisy—"
"No."
He looked almost surprised.
"You haven't heard the terms."
"I don't need to."
"Perhaps you should."
I folded my arms.
"You're not buying my family."
His expression changed.
"I'm not trying to."
"Then why?"
He was quiet for a long moment.
"Because my father owed your grandfather a debt. And because someone is willing to kill over this land."
I glanced toward Grandma.
She sat with her hands folded tightly in her lap.
I had never seen her look so old.
"What do you want in return?" I asked.
Vincent studied me.
"The truth."
"That's all?"
"And your cooperation."
"What kind of cooperation?"
He took a breath.
"For the next few weeks, I need you and your family somewhere secure."
I stared at him.
"You're asking us to leave the inn?"
"Temporarily."
"Absolutely not."
"Daisy—"
"People have reservations next weekend. We're hosting a wedding in two weeks. I have three refrigerators full of food and a broken dishwasher that only works when you kick it!"
"Daisy."
"No!"
His eyes hardened.
"Someone fired into your kitchen this morning."
"And you think that means we should abandon everything?"
"I think it means I need to protect you."
I leaned forward.
"Then protect us here."
Silence settled over the cellar.
Marco looked as though I'd suggested building a swimming pool inside a volcano.
Vincent stared at me.
Then, slowly, he smiled.
"What?"
"You remind me of your grandfather."
I blinked.
"You didn't know my grandfather."
"No. But my father told me about him."
He leaned back.
"Apparently, Robert Bennett once threatened to shoot my father's bodyguard for stepping on his wife's flower garden."
Grandma smiled proudly.
"He certainly did."
Vincent looked at me again.
"Fine. We'll secure the inn."
I was stunned.
"Really?"
"Really."
"You're not going to argue?"
"I suspect that would be pointless."
Grandma nodded.
"He's learning."
Then Vincent's phone rang.
He glanced at the screen.
The smile disappeared.
"Excuse me."
He stepped toward the stairs.
I watched him answer.
At first, he said nothing.
Then his face changed.
"What did you find?"
A pause.
His eyes moved toward me.
"Are you certain?"
Another pause.
The muscles in his jaw tightened.
"Don't touch anything. I'm coming."
He ended the call.
"What happened?" I asked.
He looked at Grandma.
Then at the ring.
"Marco found the truck."
I stood.
"And?"
"The driver is dead."
My stomach dropped.
Vincent continued.
"Before he died, someone sent a message from his phone."
"What message?"
Vincent hesitated.
Then he turned the screen toward me.
Four words appeared in white letters.
GIVE US THE BENNETT GIRL.
For several seconds, nobody moved.
Then Grandma stood.
"No."
Her voice was barely audible.
Vincent looked at her.
"Ruth?"
She pointed toward the old wooden cabinet against the cellar wall.
"There's something Robert made me promise never to show Daisy."
My heart stopped.
"Grandma, what are you talking about?"
Tears gathered in her eyes.
"I thought if I kept quiet, they'd leave us alone."
She opened the cabinet.
Behind a row of dusty jars sat a small metal box.
She carried it to the table.
Her hands trembled as she opened it.
Inside was a photograph of a baby.
A birth certificate.
And an old letter.
May you like
Grandma looked at me with tears streaming down her face.
"Daisy, sweetheart, there's something you need to know about the day you were born."
