Chapter 4 - Saint Vincent Cemetery was buried beneath fresh snow when I arrived.Three in the morning.
No bodyguards.
No Dominic.
No Luca.
Just me.
And the grave of the man whose legacy I had spent half my life protecting.
My father.
Antonio Moretti.
The city remembered him as a monster.
I remembered him as a giant.
He had taught me how to hold a gun.
How to recognize a liar.
How to negotiate.
How to survive.
But he had never taught me how to question him.
I stood before his grave.
Then I looked at the photograph.
THE ORIGINAL FIVE.
My father.
My mother.
Luca.
Dominic.
And a stranger.
I called an old cemetery groundskeeper.
He arrived twenty minutes later.
“You shouldn't be here.”
“Open it.”
He looked at me.
“Mr. Moretti…”
“Open it.”
He hesitated.
Then unlocked the gate.
We dug.
Forty minutes later, the coffin emerged.
The groundskeeper stepped backward.
“You're certain?”
“Open it.”
He did.
The coffin was empty.
Again.
I stared into it.
No body.
No bones.
Nothing.
Just a small metal box.
I opened it.
Inside were letters.
Dozens.
All addressed to me.
All dated after my father's supposed death.
The first letter began:
ADRIAN,
IF YOU ARE READING THIS, THEN THEY HAVE FINALLY TOLD YOU I AM DEAD.
I read the next sentence.
THEY DID NOT KILL ME.
I stopped breathing.
The groundskeeper stared at me.
“What does it say?”
I closed the letter.
“Nothing.”
Inside the box was another object.
A key.
Engraved on the metal:
I knew exactly what it opened.
Warehouse 17.
A building my father had forbidden me to enter.
A building I had burned out of curiosity when I was seventeen.
I had always believed nothing survived.
Apparently something had.
I drove there.
The warehouse was abandoned.
The roof had collapsed.
Snow covered the floor.
I found the old office.
Behind a broken panel was a metal lock.
The key fit.
Inside was a hidden room.
And on the wall were hundreds of photographs.
People.
Meetings.
Money transfers.
Murders.
Every major event in my family's history.
Someone had been documenting everything.
Then I saw a photograph that made my knees weak.
It showed Luca.
Alive.
Standing beside my father.
The date was thirteen years ago.
One year before Luca supposedly died.
I looked at the next photograph.
My father.
Luca.
Dominic.
The unknown fifth person.
And a young woman.
Beatrice.
I stared.
She was barely twenty.
The same face.
The same eyes.
The same woman who had been serving dinner in my mansion six years later.
I heard footsteps.
I turned.
Beatrice stood in the doorway.
She held a gun.
“Don't.”
I slowly raised my hands.
“You knew about this room.”
“Yes.”
“You knew my father was alive?”
“No.”
“You knew Luca.”
“Yes.”
“You worked for them.”
She lowered the gun.
“I worked for your father.”
My blood froze.
“My father recruited you?”
“He recruited my entire family.”
“What does that mean?”
Her eyes filled.
“Your father wasn't a crime boss.”
I almost laughed.
“He owned half the city.”
“No.”
She shook her head.
“He owned the people who owned the city.”
I stared at her.
“What are you saying?”
She stepped inside.
“He was part of something older than your family.”
I looked at the photographs.
“The Original Five.”
She nodded.
“Five families built Chicago's underground network.”
“And my father was one of them.”
“Yes.”
“Who were the others?”
She pointed at the photographs.
“Your father.”
“Dominic's father.”
“Luca's mother.”
I frowned.
“Luca's mother?”
“Your mother was the fourth.”
“And the fifth?”
Beatrice looked at me.
“Your family has been searching for him for twelve years.”
“Who?”
She whispered,
“Your brother.”
I stared.
“Luca?”
“No.”
She pointed at the fifth photograph.
The unknown face.
“That man is not missing.”
I looked closer.
And suddenly I recognized him.
He was in every photograph of my childhood.
At my father's dinner table.
At family weddings.
At funerals.
At my father's funeral.
He had stood ten feet away from me.
I knew his name.
Victor Hale.
My father's closest advisor.
I had buried him myself three years after my father's death.
But according to the photograph, Victor had been dead for twelve years.
Beatrice whispered,
“Victor Hale is alive.”
My phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
A voice said,
“You finally found the grave.”
I froze.
“Who is this?”
The voice laughed.
“Wrong question.”
A pause.
May you like
Then:
“The right question is why your father's grave was never supposed to contain a body.”
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