Chapter 5 - The Broken Rosary
The private airfield in New Jersey was shrouded in thick, freezing fog. The tarmac was a sea of gray, illuminated only by the faint, yellow runway lights.
I parked the SUV out of sight, behind a row of rusted hangars.
“Stay in the car,” I told Hannah. “Keep the doors locked. Keep Lily down.”
“Grant, please be careful,” Hannah whispered, her eyes wide with fear.
I nodded, stepping out into the biting cold. The silver rosary felt heavy in my pocket. It wasn’t Julian’s. It was Celeste’s. It was the missing piece that explained everything.
I moved silently through the fog toward Hangar 4, the location listed on the receipt. The massive metal door was slightly ajar, spilling a slice of harsh white light onto the wet concrete.
I slipped inside, my gun raised.
The hangar was massive, echoing with the hum of a waiting Gulfstream jet.
And standing in the center, flanked by four heavily armed men, was Celeste.
She wore a sleek black trench coat, looking every bit the untouchable queen she believed herself to be. She held a metal briefcase. My bonds. My deeds.
“You’re late, Grant,” Celeste’s voice echoed in the cavernous space. She didn’t look surprised to see me. She looked victorious.
“You killed my son,” I said, my voice cutting through the hum of the jet engine.
Celeste smiled, a cold, empty expression. “He was weak, Grant. Just like his father. He couldn’t handle the weight of the Whitaker name. I just expedited the inevitable.”
“You’re a Moretti,” I stated, watching her face for a reaction.
Her smile faltered slightly, but she quickly recovered. “Ah. You figured it out. Yes, Grant. Ten years ago, you drove my father to put a bullet in his own head. You took my family’s empire. So, I decided to take yours. I took your son. I took your money. And now, I’m leaving.”
“Not yet,” I said, stepping fully into the light.
Her four guards raised their weapons, pointing them directly at my chest.
“You’re outnumbered, Grant. Put the gun down, or my men will shoot you where you stand,” Celeste ordered.
I didn’t lower my weapon. Instead, I reached into my pocket with my left hand and pulled out the silver rosary. I held it up for her to see.
Celeste’s eyes widened. Her perfect composure finally shattered.
“Where did you get that?” she hissed.
“Julian’s coat,” I said. “He must have pulled it off your neck while you were poisoning him. But that’s not what matters, Celeste. What matters is the engraving on the cross.”
I looked past Celeste to the captain of her guards. A towering, scarred man named Victor. A man who used to work for the Moretti family.
“Victor,” I called out. “Did you know your boss had a sister?”
Victor frowned, his gun wavering slightly. “What?”
“Celeste isn’t the only Moretti,” I said, never taking my eyes off her. “The rosary is engraved to Isabella. Celeste’s older sister. The sister who died in a crossfire twelve years ago. A crossfire started by Victor.”
Celeste screamed. “Shut up! Shoot him, Victor! Shoot him!”
But Victor didn’t shoot. He lowered his gun, turning slowly toward Celeste. “You told me Isabella died of sickness. You told me the Whitakers poisoned her.”
“She’s playing you, Victor!” Celeste yelled, backing away toward the plane.
The reversal was absolute. Celeste had built her loyal army on lies, using the men who had accidentally killed her sister to exact revenge on me.
“Check the briefcase, Victor,” I said calmly. “The deeds to my companies? She already forged the transfer papers. But not to the Moretti family. To a shell corporation in her own name. She’s leaving you behind to take the fall.”
Victor snatched the briefcase from Celeste’s hand. He popped the latches. He saw the papers.
His face twisted in rage. He raised his weapon, aiming it at Celeste.
Before he could pull the trigger, a gunshot rang out through the hangar.
But it didn’t come from Victor. And it didn’t come from me.
Celeste collapsed, clutching her shoulder, blood seeping through her black coat.
I spun around. Standing in the doorway of the hangar, holding my backup revolver with trembling hands, was Hannah.
And strapped to her chest, fast asleep in a baby carrier, was Lily.
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But Hannah wasn’t looking at Celeste. She was staring at a man stepping out from the shadows behind the private jet. A man I had buried four years ago.
“Hello, Dad,” Julian said.
