The Breath in the Casket: A Waitress, a Mafia Boss, and the Secret That Woke the Dead

The dusty air of the garage seemed to evaporate, leaving me gasping.

"You're lying," I backed away, clutching the photograph to my chest. "He was a mechanic. He came home every night smelling of motor oil and grease. The police said he lost control of his truck on the interstate."

Alessio took a slow step toward me, his hands raised in a placating gesture. "He smelled of motor oil because he ran this exact garage, Nora. It was a front. Your father was the best forensic accountant my family ever employed."

The words didn't make sense. They bounced off my brain like hail on a tin roof. My sweet, quiet father, who taught me how to fish and burned pancakes on Sunday mornings, was a mob accountant?

"He washed money," Dante chimed in, his deep voice carrying no judgment, just cold fact. "Millions of it. He was a genius with numbers. Until he found a discrepancy in the books. Money missing from the family accounts. He came to Alessio's father with the proof."

"And then he died in a car crash," I whispered, the sickening realization settling heavy in my stomach.

"It wasn't an accident," Alessio said gently. "My father didn't order it. We suspected Marcus did, but we could never prove it. Marcus was embezzling, and your father caught him."

I looked down at the photograph. The young Alessio smiling at my dad. The trust in my father’s eyes.

"If my father worked for you," I said, my voice trembling with a sudden, sharp clarity, "then Marcus knows who I am. He didn't just pick a random waitress to frame tonight. He picked Arthur Bennett's daughter."

Alessio nodded, his jaw tight. "He wanted to tie up a loose end while taking me out. If the police found you with the pin, they’d dig into your background, find out your father was a disgruntled mob employee, and boom—they have a motive. The revenge of a daughter."

It was brilliant. It was pure, unadulterated evil.

"We need to get to the ledger," Alessio said, turning back to the safe. He finally popped the lock, pulling out thick stacks of cash and two burner phones. "If your father had proof of Marcus's embezzlement, he hid it. And Marcus has been looking for it ever since."

"I don't have any ledger!" I cried out. "When he died, the bank took everything. The house, the cars. I grew up in foster care!"

"He wouldn't have left it in a house," Dante said, peering out the greasy front window of the garage. "Arthur was paranoid. He left a breadcrumb trail. We just need to know where it starts."

Before I could answer, the front window shattered inward in a spray of glass and noise.

I screamed as Dante tackled me to the ground, his massive body shielding mine as suppressed gunfire ripped through the thin walls of the garage.

"They tracked us!" Alessio shouted, drawing a weapon from the safe and returning fire into the darkness of the alley.

"We have to move, now!" Dante grunted, hauling me to my feet by my collar.

We ran toward the back exit. Alessio kicked the door open, providing cover fire. The alley was dark, smelling of garbage and rain. We sprinted toward a rusted chain-link fence.

Suddenly, Dante stumbled. He let out a sharp, breathless grunt and crashed into the brick wall, clutching his shoulder. Blood seeped through his thick fingers, black in the moonlight.

"Dante!" Alessio yelled, rushing to grab his other arm.

"Go!" Dante growled, shoving Alessio away. "I’ll hold them off. Take the girl and go to the harbor!"

I reached out to help him, my hands shaking. As I grabbed Dante’s coat, something fell from his inside pocket and clattered onto the pavement.

I looked down.

It was a crumpled, blood-stained piece of paper. The Gable Events catering manifest.

My name was at the very bottom, added in black ink. Beside my name were the initials: D.M.

Dante Moretti.