Chapter 7 - The Funeral Verse
Back at the safe house, I sang the funeral verse for Giulia.
She started crying before I finished.
Christopher stood by the window.
Marco listened from the doorway.
The verse spoke of a woman crossing black water, placing a red flower beneath a dark stone, and asking Saint Michael to guard the debt of the dead.
When I finished, Giulia whispered, “Maria wrote that.”
I stared.
“Nona said it came from her mother.”
“Lucia lied.”
“Everybody in this family loved doing that.”
Giulia gave me a tired smile.
Christopher asked, “Where did Maria hide it?”
Giulia closed her eyes.
“Near herself.”
He went still.
“My mother’s grave?”
“Not the grave.”
“The mausoleum.”
Giulia nodded.
The Vitali family mausoleum stood in a private cemetery outside Boston.
Christopher had not entered it in twelve years.
I learned that when we reached the gates.
“You okay?” I asked.
“No.”
“Want me to wait outside?”
He looked at me.
“No.”
That one word carried more trust than anything he had said since we met.
Inside, Maria’s crypt occupied the center wall.
Above it stood a carved Saint Michael.
At the base was a red metal rose.
I touched it.
It shifted.
Behind it was a keyhole.
The brass key from the Tre Olivi compartment fit perfectly.
A narrow panel opened.
Inside was a sealed cylinder.
Christopher did not touch it.
I did.
The red leather book inside was smaller than the black ledger.
The pages held debts.
Not money alone.
Protection.
Favors.
Lives spared.
Murders prevented.
Murders requested.
Christopher read one page and immediately handed it to Detective Sullivan.
“Evidence.”
Before it disappeared into an evidence bag, I saw one entry.
VINCENT VITALI — DEBT TO LUCIA CARUSO — TWO LIVES.
I looked at Giulia.
“What does that mean?”
Her eyes filled.
“Your parents.”
My knees weakened.
Christopher steadied me.
Giulia explained.
Dominic had once planned to kill my parents because they carried copies of financial records.
Vincent stopped it.
“He owed Lucia two lives,” she said.
“Then why did my parents die later?”
“I don’t know.”
Another entry, written years after the crash, was in Vincent’s handwriting.
DEBT FAILED. FIND WHO TOOK THEM.
Christopher stared at it.
“My father investigated their deaths.”
Maybe Matteo had lied.
Maybe Dominic was responsible.
Maybe the truth was still worse.
We did not have time to find out.
At six that evening, Mr. Bellini called.
A package had been left on the stage at Cafe Napoli.
Inside was Nona’s old scarf.
The one I had buried with her.
And a note.
SING TUESDAY OR GIULIA DIES.
Christopher read it.
“No.”
Giulia said, “Yes.”
We both turned.
She looked calm.
“He wants the old families watching. He wants to make a public statement.”
Christopher’s voice hardened.
“You are not bait.”
Giulia smiled sadly.
“Maria used to say that.”
I stepped between them.
“Nobody is bait.”
Everyone looked at me.
“We control the room.”
Tuesday night belonged to me.
My stage.
My audience.
If Matteo wanted theater, I understood theater better than he did.
Sullivan built the surveillance plan.
Marco secured the exits.
Christopher argued until he had nothing left.
At 8:03 Tuesday night, Cafe Napoli filled.
I stood behind the curtain.
Christopher approached.
“If anything feels wrong, stop.”
“Okay.”
“Do not be brave because you think you owe anyone bravery.”
“Okay.”
“Stay near the microphone.”
“Christopher.”
“What?”
I took his hand.
He stopped.
“I’m scared too.”
His face softened.
“Good.”
I laughed nervously.
“Good?”
“It means I’m not alone.”
I stepped onto the stage.
The cafe went quiet.
I began the song Maria and Lucia shared.
Halfway through the second verse, the front door opened.
Matteo Greco entered alone.
He smiled at me.
Then raised one hand.
Across the cafe, three men stood.
Not Greco’s men.
Police officers already had them covered.
Matteo laughed.
“You thought I came to fight?”
I stopped singing.
“What do you want?”
He looked at Christopher.
“To surrender.”
Nobody moved.
Then he added:
“Because Dominic Vitali has Giulia, and if you arrest me before we find him, she dies.”
Christopher’s face changed.
Giulia had left the safe house only an hour earlier under escort.
Marco touched his earpiece.
Then swore.
Her vehicle had never reached the cafe.
The escort driver was unconscious in an alley.
Dominic, somehow, had escaped police transport that afternoon.
Christopher moved toward Matteo.
I caught his sleeve.
“Not here.”
“He has my aunt.”
Matteo shook his head.
“No. Dominic has your aunt. I have the address.”
Sullivan stepped forward.
“And your price?”
Matteo looked almost amused.
“Consideration.”
“Not immunity.”
“I’m realistic.”
Christopher stared at him.
Matteo said, “Your uncle no longer cares about Greco or Vitali. He cares about dying without taking the truth with him.”
“What truth?”
Matteo looked at me.
“Who killed Emily’s parents.”
After Giulia’s rescue, I sat beside her in the ambulance.
Her wrists were bruised from restraints.
She kept apologizing.
“For what?”
“Dominic took me because I left the route.”
“You were kidnapped.”
“I should have known better.”
I stared at her.
“You sound like Christopher.”
She looked offended.
“I am much smarter than Christopher.”
From outside, he said, “I can hear you.”
Giulia smiled.
Then her face became serious.
“Do not let our family teach you to confuse vigilance with responsibility.”
I thought about that.
“What is the difference?”
“Vigilance says danger exists.”
“And responsibility?”
“Responsibility says danger is your fault.”
She touched my hand.
“Lucia understood that better than any of us.”
Later, when Christopher blamed himself for Dominic’s choices, I repeated Giulia’s words.
He did not like them.
That was how I knew he needed them.
The mechanic’s confession in my parents’ case arrived two days later.
He remembered Dominic clearly.
A young man in an expensive coat who paid cash and kept looking over his shoulder.
The mechanic had carried the guilt for decades.
“Why confess now?” I asked Sullivan.
“Cancer.”
I almost laughed at the cruel symmetry.
Nona and Maria had both died of cancer.
Now illness was forcing another man to tell the truth.
“He wants forgiveness?”
“No. He says he wants the facts recorded correctly.”
That mattered more to me.
I did not owe him absolution.
I wanted the truth.
For years, my parents’ crash had been a terrible accident.
Now it was murder.
Strangely, the pain did not become larger.
It became sharper.
Specific grief was harder in one way.
Easier in another.
You could point to it.
May you like
Name it.
Stop blaming weather, chance, or God.
