Chapter 5 - The Empty Grave
The room plunged into a chilling silence. Vincent dropped Caroline’s phone onto the table. The caller had already hung up. He walked over to the spilled purse, picked up the broken silver rosary, and held it up to the chandelier light. “Ten years ago,” Vincent said, his voice entirely devoid of emotion, “I watched them lower my father into the ground. I watched you place this exact rosary in his hands, Mom.” Helen pressed her hands to her mouth, weeping silently. “If this was in his casket,” Vincent continued, turning his terrifying gaze back to Caroline, “how did the people extorting you get it?” Caroline was shaking violently. “I don’t know! They mailed it to me in a blank envelope. They said it was proof that they could reach anyone, even the dead.” Vincent looked at his head of security. “Get a crew to St. Jude’s Cemetery,” Vincent ordered. “Dig up my father’s grave. Do it now.” The guard nodded and rushed out the door. I stood near Helen’s wheelchair, my mind racing. The watch on Mark’s wrist. The rosary from the casket. This wasn’t just an extortion plot; this was a deeply personal psychological war being waged against the DeLuca family. And someone on the inside had to be helping them. Vincent crouched in front of Caroline. “I am going to ask you one last time. Give me a name. Who is pulling your strings?” “I never saw his face!” Caroline cried. “We only communicated through dead drops and burner phones. But he knew everything, Vincent. He knew the security codes to the foundation. He knew Helen’s medical schedule. He even knew about Nora’s contract renewing next week.” I went cold. “He knew about me?” I asked. Caroline nodded miserably. “He told me Nora was too observant. He told me to fire her tonight, in front of the guests, so it would look like a simple domestic dispute. He wanted her out of the house before Mark arrived.” I looked at Vincent. “Someone in your inner circle is feeding them information.” Vincent stood up slowly, looking around the room at his relatives, his lieutenants, his trusted guards. Everyone looked nervous. Anyone could be the traitor. Helen reached for my hand. Her grip was surprisingly strong. “Vincent,” she said softly. “Not now, Mom,” he said, rubbing his temples. “Vincent, listen to me.” Helen’s voice was firm, completely lacking the confusion of a tired old woman. “Your father’s grave isn’t empty.” Vincent stopped. He turned to her. “What?” “They didn’t dig him up,” Helen said, her eyes flashing with a sudden, dark clarity. “They couldn’t have. Because your father isn’t buried at St. Jude’s.” The entire room stared at her. Vincent walked slowly back to her wheelchair. “I was at the funeral, Mom. I carried the casket.” “You carried a closed casket full of stones,” Helen confessed, the secret of a decade finally tumbling from her lips. “Your father knew he was being hunted. He knew a war was coming. He faked his death in that alley to protect us.” Vincent looked as though he had been struck. “My father is alive?” “No,” Helen said softly. “He passed away three years ago in a hospice in Ohio. From cancer. I was with him.” She reached into her heavy winter coat and pulled out a small, worn leather journal. “He kept this. He wrote down everything. Every account, every debt, every traitor in this family.” She handed it to Vincent. “The man extorting Caroline didn’t rob a grave, Vincent. He robbed your father’s safe house in Ohio.” Vincent opened the journal. I watched his eyes scan the first page. Suddenly, Vincent slammed the book shut and drew his weapon, aiming it directly at the head of security who had just walked back into the room. “Don’t move, Paul,” Vincent snarled.
