Chapter 7 - THE EMPTY CASKET AND THE BURNER PHONE
The rain pounded relentlessly against the windshield of the SUV, but inside, the air was entirely still.
"Empty," Vincent repeated, the word tasting like lead on his tongue. He stared at the phone in his hand as if it had just spoken in a foreign language. "What do you mean, empty? I carried that casket myself twelve years ago."
"I know, sir," Dr. Evans stammered through the speaker, clearly terrified of the mafia boss’s wrath. "But the police report is definitive. There are no human remains inside. The casket was filled with fifty pounds of sandbags to simulate the weight of a body."
I felt a cold shiver race down my spine. Fifty pounds of sandbags.
"Where is my mother?" Vincent whispered, his voice cracking with a terrifying mixture of rage and desperate hope.
"We don't know, sir. The hospital records from twelve years ago were signed by Dr. Aris Thorne. He pronounced the time of death and oversaw the transfer to the mortuary."
"Get me Thorne’s address," Vincent commanded, his voice turning to ice. "Now."
"Dr. Thorne passed away five years ago, Mr. Marino," the doctor apologized frantically. "But... I did find something strange in the archive files. There was a transfer order signed the night of her supposed death. An ambulance transfer to a private, long-term care facility in upstate New York. A place called Whispering Pines."
Vincent’s eyes widened. "Whispering Pines?"
"Yes, sir. The patient name was listed as Jane Doe, but the transfer was authorized under the same medical billing code as your mother’s emergency room visit."
"Thank you, Doctor," Vincent said abruptly, hanging up the phone.
He stared out into the dark, rainy night, his mind racing to process the impossible.
"Vincent," I said softly, touching his arm. "Is it possible... could she be alive?"
"Silvio shot her," Vincent muttered, dragging a shaking hand over his face. "Frank heard the phone call. Bianca pushed her down the stairs, and Silvio finished it. That was the story."
"But Frank only heard a phone call," I pointed out, my mind working furiously. "He didn't see the body. What if Bianca didn't finish the job? What if she panicked?"
Vincent turned to look at me, a spark of dangerous realization igniting in his dark eyes.
"Bianca was twenty years old," Vincent deduced, the pieces falling into place. "She pushed my mother, panicked, and thought she killed her. She called Silvio, terrified. Silvio told her he would handle the body to protect her, binding her to him forever."
"But Silvio didn't kill her," I finished, the sheer, calculated evil of the plan washing over me. "He moved her. He faked the death, put sandbags in the casket, and sent her to a private facility out of state."
"Leverage," Vincent snarled, slamming his fist against the steering wheel so hard the horn honked briefly. "He kept her alive as the ultimate insurance policy. If I ever found out he orchestrated the push, he would hold my mother’s life over my head to keep me in line."
The cruelty of it was staggering. Silvio had allowed his nephew to mourn his mother for twelve years, allowed his brother to suffer, all while keeping the woman locked away in a facility a thousand miles away.
"We have to go to New York," Vincent said, grabbing the keys to the SUV.
Before he could start the engine, a sharp tapping sounded on my window.
I jumped, startled.
Marco was standing outside in the rain, looking grim. I rolled the window down.
"Boss," Marco said, leaning in. "We have a complication with the cleanup."
"Not now, Marco," Vincent said impatiently. "My mother might be alive in New York. Get the jet ready."
Marco’s scarred face paled slightly at the news, but he shook his head. "The jet has to wait, Boss. You need to see this."
"What is it?" Vincent demanded.
Marco stepped back and gestured toward the loading bay where Silvio’s body still lay on the concrete.
"When we went to bag Silvio’s body, his phone rang," Marco explained, his voice tight. "It wasn't a standard cell. It was a heavily encrypted burner phone. Only one contact programmed into it."
"Who was calling him?" Vincent asked, a cold knot forming in his stomach.
"It wasn't a call. It was a text message," Marco said, holding up a small, black disposable phone in a plastic evidence bag.
He turned the screen toward us so we could read the glowing green text in the dark.
Plan B failed. Frank is dead, but Vincent survived. The girl has the tape. I am executing Plan C. The old woman burns tonight.
The message was signed with a single initial: B.
Bianca.
"She knows," I gasped, horrified. "She knows we survived."
"She’s not in Chicago," Vincent realized, his eyes wide with sheer panic. "I kicked her out of the house tonight with nothing. She didn't have anywhere to go in the city. She fled to the one place she knew she had leverage."
"She went to Whispering Pines," Marco said grimly. "She sent that text to Silvio assuming he was still alive and in control. She’s telling him she’s going to kill your mother to destroy the evidence."
"How far is Whispering Pines?" Vincent barked, throwing the SUV into drive.
"It’s a three-hour flight, plus a two-hour drive into the mountains," Marco said rapidly. "Boss, if she’s already there..."
"I don't care if she’s standing over the bed!" Vincent roared, the tires screeching on the wet asphalt as he spun the heavy vehicle around. "Get in the back, Marco! We are leaving right now!"
Marco didn't argue. He dove into the backseat just as Vincent floored the accelerator, launching the armored SUV out of the shipping yards and toward the private airfield.
The flight to New York was a blur of agonizing tension. I sat strapped into a plush leather seat on the private jet, watching Vincent pace the narrow aisle like a caged panther. He was cleaning and reassembling a Glock 19 over and over again, his hands moving with terrifying, practiced speed.
"Vincent, you have to sit down," I urged gently as the plane encountered mild turbulence.
He stopped pacing, looking out the small window into the pitch-black sky.
"For twelve years, I visited an empty grave," Vincent whispered, his voice thick with a grief he had thought was resolved, only to have it ripped open again. "I brought flowers to dirt and sandbags. While she was locked in a room, probably sedated, thinking her family abandoned her."
"We’re going to get her back," I promised, reaching out to touch his arm. "Bianca won't win."
Vincent looked at me, his dark eyes hardening into pure, lethal obsidian.
"Bianca isn't just going to lose, Julia," Vincent said quietly. "I am going to make her beg for the mercy I gave my uncle tonight."
Two hours later, we landed on a small, private airstrip in upstate New York. A black rental SUV was already waiting for us, arranged by Marco during the flight.
We tore through the winding, treacherous mountain roads, the rain having turned into a thick, freezing fog that clung to the trees like ghosts.
At 4:00 AM, the GPS directed us down a secluded, unmarked gravel road.
Through the fog, the sprawling, gothic architecture of the Whispering Pines Care Facility emerged. It looked more like a fortress than a hospital, surrounded by high wrought-iron fences and dense pine forests.
Vincent slammed the brakes, killing the headlights a hundred yards from the front gates.
"The gate is open," Marco noted, pointing through the windshield. The heavy iron bars were pushed wide, and the guard booth was dark.
"She’s already inside," Vincent snarled, drawing his weapon.
We stepped out of the car into the freezing mist. The silence of the mountains was oppressive, broken only by the crunch of gravel beneath our boots.
We approached the massive oak front doors of the facility. They were slightly ajar.
Vincent pushed the door open, sweeping the lobby with his weapon.
The front desk was abandoned. Papers were scattered across the floor, a chair overturned. It didn't look like a quiet hospital; it looked like a crime scene.
"Marco, check the registry," Vincent ordered, moving toward the main hallway. "Find out what room Jane Doe is in."
Marco sprinted to the desk, flipping through a heavy leather ledger.
"Room 402," Marco called out. "Top floor. Maximum security wing."
"Let’s go," Vincent said, breaking into a run.
We pounded up three flights of stairs, the eerie quiet of the hospital amplifying the sound of our footsteps. When we reached the fourth floor, the smell hit us immediately.
Gasoline.
"She’s setting the fire," I gasped, panic rising in my throat.
We sprinted down the long, sterile hallway. At the very end, the door to Room 402 was wide open. A faint, flickering orange light danced on the linoleum floor.
Vincent didn't hesitate. He burst into the room, his weapon raised.
"Bianca!" Vincent roared.
But the room was empty.
A small fire had been started in the metal trash can near the bed, fueled by medical alcohol and paper, designed to spread quickly to the curtains.
But there was no patient in the bed. The sheets were thrown back, the IV stand knocked over.
"Where is she?!" Vincent shouted, frantically kicking the burning trash can away from the curtains and stomping out the flames with his heavy boots.
I looked around the room, my heart hammering.
"Vincent, look," I pointed to the large, reinforced window at the back of the room.
The glass was shattered. The cold mountain wind was howling through the opening.
We rushed to the window and looked out.
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The window overlooked a steep, rocky ravine at the back of the facility. And standing on the edge of the cliff, illuminated by the pale moonlight breaking through the fog, was Bianca.
She was holding a frail, silver-haired woman in a hospital gown at gunpoint, inches from the drop.
