Chapter 4 - THE MAN WHO ATTENDED HIS OWN FUNERALEmma stared at the enlarged reflection until her eyes hurt.
Thomas Reed.
Her father’s best friend.
Her godfather.
The man who used to bring her chocolate-covered pretzels every Christmas because he could never remember what toys twelve-year-old girls liked.
Dead for eight years.
Apparently not dead enough.
Dante parked two blocks from the Brooklyn warehouse.
“You know him?”
Emma nodded.
“Thomas worked with my father.”
“For us?”
“For Moretti Logistics.”
Dante’s jaw tightened.
“My father’s company.”
“Yes.”
Emma remembered Thomas crying at Jack’s funeral.
Remembered him kneeling beside her.
Your father loved you more than anything.
Sixteen months later, Thomas supposedly died in a boating accident.
No body had been recovered.
Emma had never questioned it.
Until now.
Dante sent men around the warehouse despite the demand that they come alone.
Inside, Vince remained tied to the chair.
Alive.
Barely.
But Thomas Reed was nowhere.
A speaker crackled overhead.
“Hello, Emma.”
Her stomach dropped.
The voice had aged.
But she knew it.
“Thomas.”
Dante looked at her.
The speaker continued.
“You grew up clever.”
“Apparently not clever enough to notice you faked your death.”
Thomas laughed softly.
“Jack would appreciate that.”
“Don’t say his name.”
Silence.
Then:
“Your father was the best man I ever knew.”
“You helped kill him.”
“No.”
Emma’s anger faltered.
“Then come out.”
“I can’t.”
“Coward.”
“Possibly.”
A monitor illuminated.
Old security footage began playing.
Date stamped ten years earlier.
Jack Caldwell entered a parking garage.
Carlo Moretti followed.
Emma stopped breathing.
The footage had no sound.
Her father appeared furious.
Carlo grabbed him.
Jack shoved him away.
Then a third man entered.
Thomas.
The video cut.
“What happened next?” Emma demanded.
Thomas answered through the speaker.
“Your father refused Carlo’s offer.”
“What offer?”
“To disappear.”
Dante looked stunned.
Thomas continued.
“Carlo knew Vincent had been moving money. But Vincent wasn’t stealing it. Carlo was.”
Vince raised his bloody head.
“You finally believe me?” he rasped.
Dante ignored him.
Thomas explained.
Carlo had been quietly building a second financial empire beyond Moretti control. He planned to abandon several legitimate companies, move the family’s hidden assets overseas, and leave his own partners holding the criminal exposure.
Jack discovered it.
Vincent helped Carlo hide transactions because Carlo had threatened Vince’s younger brother.
But Jack refused.
“So Carlo killed him,” Emma said.
“No.”
Thomas’s voice changed.
“Jack escaped.”
Emma froze.
“What?”
“He survived the car crash.”
Every memory inside her seemed to stop.
“No.”
“I pulled him from the car.”
Emma grabbed the edge of the table.
Dante stepped closer but did not touch her.
“Where is he?”
Thomas hesitated.
“Emma—”
“WHERE IS MY FATHER?”
The warehouse echoed.
“He lived for another seven years.”
The words destroyed something inside her.
Seven years.
Seven birthdays.
Seven Christmases.
Seven years Emma had believed she was an orphan.
“Why didn’t he come home?”
“Because Carlo threatened you.”
Emma’s anger turned to grief.
“Carlo died six years ago.”
“Yes.”
“Then why didn’t Dad come back?”
Thomas went silent.
Emma understood before he answered.
“Because Carlo wasn’t the only threat.”
Dante looked upward.
“Who?”
Thomas finally said it.
“Your mother.”
Dante’s face went blank.
“My mother has been dead for fifteen years.”
“No,” Thomas replied.
“She hasn’t.”
Even Vince looked shocked.
Dante’s mother, Isabella Moretti, had supposedly died when Dante was seventeen.
Cancer.
There had been a funeral.
A coffin.
Hundreds of mourners.
But Thomas claimed Isabella discovered Carlo’s financial betrayal years earlier and secretly built a network of her own.
When Carlo realized she intended to expose him, Isabella vanished.
Her death was staged.
Carlo told his children she was gone.
For nearly two decades, Isabella had operated from Europe through intermediaries.
“And now?” Dante asked.
“She’s back.”
A door opened at the far end of the warehouse.
Dante’s men rushed inside.
Empty corridor.
Thomas was already gone.
But he left something behind.
A small wooden box.
Emma opened it.
Inside was a photograph.
Her father.
Older.
Gray at the temples.
Standing beside Thomas.
The date was three years ago.
Emma touched Jack’s face with trembling fingers.
On the back were four handwritten words.
I’m sorry, little bird.
Her father’s nickname for her.
Emma sank into a chair.
For ten years she had wanted justice for a dead man.
Now she did not know whether Jack Caldwell was dead at all.
Vince coughed.
“There’s something else.”
Dante turned.
Vince looked at Emma.
“Jack contacted me eighteen months ago.”
Emma stood.
“What did he say?”
Vince swallowed.
“He told me if you ever opened that red folder, I had exactly seventy-two hours to get you out of New York.”
“Why?”
Vince looked at Dante.
“Because Isabella Moretti would come for her.”
Emma’s phone rang.
Unknown number.
She answered.
A woman spoke.
Older.
Elegant.
Terrifyingly calm.
“Hello, Emma.”
Dante heard the voice and went white.
Because although nearly twenty years had passed, he recognized his mother immediately.
Isabella continued.
“You have something that belongs to me.”
Emma tightened her grip on the phone.
“What?”
May you like
The woman laughed softly.
“My son.”
Related Stories
