The Rocchetti Queen - Bree Porter Page 0,16

days as Mayor of Chicago.”

I walked away before I could hear his irritating response.

Rocchetti Alzheimer’s Support took up half a dozen levels in a huge sparkling skyscraper, situated near the middle of Chicago. The labs were always filled with chatter and intelligent scientists—all who despised being interrupted—so I spent most of my time in the offices, with those of us who weren’t smart enough to find cures.

My office, chic and modern, overlooked the river. Though at the moment it was packed with maps and boards. I was at my desk, scouring through the guest list, while a few of my employees pored over the seating arrangements.

I had almost grown numb to the list of names until one caught my eye. Pelletier.

That name was horribly familiar. Charles Pelletier had been the boss of the Corsican Union in the 80s, and caused a lot of trouble for the Outfit. I had yet to be born, but Papa had never spoken about those days with anything but horror.

Even the wives had feared the Corsican Union vs Outfit war ever happening again. It’s why they had been so wrapped up around the Gallaghers.

I clicked on the name.

Eloise Pelletier.

There are hundreds, most likely thousands, of Pelletiers in the United States, I told myself. Not every single one of them is related to Charles Pelletier.

But I couldn’t help my scrolling.

Eloise Pelletier had been living in a care home for about six years, diagnosed with Alzheimer’s in her old age. She had no next of kin listed, though that probably wouldn’t be in public records.

But the care home would have them.

“Amy,” I called.

My assistant looked up at me. “Yes?”

“Add another name to the list. Eloise Pelletier from Sunny Days Care Home.”

“Of course. Any reason why?”

I eyed the name, mouthing the syllables. Pelletier, Pelletier. “I think she could be a benefit to the ball.”

I was aching to go home and see Dante. Alessandro had sent me constant updates throughout the day. Little photos of Dante sleeping, taking his bottle or sucking his pacifier (he didn’t do much else). I missed him, but I couldn’t deny my curiosity.

Oscuro sighed when I told him we weren’t going home just yet, but didn’t argue. He was used to me playing detective now.

Sunny Days Care Home was located on the outskirts of Chicago, taking over a beautiful patch of green land. The first thing I noticed was the garden, a mixture of beautiful well-kept hedges and flowers. Enjoying their day on the grass, whether playing chess or croquet, were the Sunny Days residents.

It looked quite peaceful.

When I approached the receptionist, she narrowed her eyes. “Can I help you?”

“Yes. I’m here to visit Eloise Pelletier.”

“Are you on her list?”

“I’m an old friend. Sophia Rocchetti.”

Once she heard my surname, the receptionist changed her tune pretty quickly. She apologized before handing me a visitor’s badge. Eloise, she told me, would be in her room watching daytime tv, and would be delighted to have a visitor. When she saw Oscuro looming behind me, she fell silent.

I thanked her before leaving.

Inside, Sunny Days Care Home was as lavish as the exterior. Beautiful marble floors and exquisite paintings, paired with chandeliers and crown moulding.

When I was old, this was probably where I would be relocated. It was better than where Nicoletta had been stashed.

Eloise’s name was printed neatly on her door.

“Stay here, Oscuro, you’ll just frighten her.”

He wasn’t pleased with my order but abided by it.

The room was small but pleasant, with a view of the green gardens and a comfy bed in the corner. Before I noticed anything else, I caught sight of a beautiful painting. It was of a stretch of green land, with a small cottage. In the corner of the canvas, the words JEAN’S BEND could be made out.

A sense of peace radiated from the image, most likely comforting to Eloise and her restless mind.

I turned away from the painting and took in the natural light shining through the windows, lighting up a small, birdlike woman sitting in a chair, a meal set up in front of her. The television was on, but the old woman was more interested in her peas.

“Ms Pelletier?” I asked.

The woman looked up at me, with light eyes and wrinkled skin. “Are you the nurse?” She swept her eyes up and down my dress, handbag and manicured nails. “You don’t look like a nurse.”

“No. I’m not a nurse. I’m here to visit you. Do you mind?”

Eloise Pelletier frowned faintly. “Do I know you? I can never remember.”

“We share mutual