Chapter 10 - Bloodlines of the Sacred VaultsTwo weeks later, on a crisp, sunlit Saturday afternoon, Clara, Martha, and I brought fresh white lilies to the private family chapel beneath the bluffs.
The chapel was quiet, peaceful, and bathed in golden autumn light that filtered through the stained-glass transoms.
The altar of Saint Jude had been restored to magnificent perfection by master Italian stonemasons, carved from flawless Carrara marble, its pillars reinforced with solid titanium cores.
Donna Isabella’s tomb was sealed beneath a fresh, gleaming granite slab, polished until it reflected the flickering candles, surrounded by an eternal bronze flame that burned day and night.
Standing beside the altar was a newly carved marble plaque:
Donna Isabella Moretti (1940–2011) — The Mother of the Faithful, Defended by Clara.
Fresh bouquets of white calla lilies, red roses, and fragrant sweet lavender rested at the base of the tomb.
Clara knelt beside the sarcophagus, resting her hand on the carved stone, her eyes bright with tears of profound, eternal peace.
“We kept your house safe, Donna Isabella,” Clara whispered softly through her tears. “Your grandson is whole. The traitors are gone forever.”
I stepped forward, resting my hand respectfully on my grandmother’s tomb.
“You can rest now, Nonna,” I murmured, my deep baritone thick with resonant emotion. “Your rosary is home. And no one will ever disturb your peace again.”
I turned toward Clara, taking her hand, gently helping her to her feet.
May you like
I reached into my coat pocket and produced an antique velvet jeweler’s box lined with white silk.
My heart began to hammer against my ribs like a trapped bird.
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