Chapter 7 - THE FUNERAL FOR A LIE
Richard Moretti was arrested nine days later.
The footage played on every television in New York.
Former judge.
Handcuffs.
Reporters shouting.
Antonio watched exactly thirty seconds.
Then turned it off.
Dennis cooperated.
Charles did not.
Frank did partially.
The investigation widened.
Old corruption.
Financial concealment.
Witness intimidation.
Records stored inside funeral transport systems.
Men who had built reputations on knowing everyone else’s secrets suddenly discovered their own were easier to organize than erase.
Antonio’s name appeared in headlines too.
Of course.
BELLINI FAMILY FUNERAL HOME LINKED TO DECADES-LONG CORRUPTION NETWORK
Some articles implied Antonio ran it.
Others said he exposed it.
Reality was uglier.
He had benefited from a family structure he did not inspect closely enough.
That mattered.
At a meeting with his legitimate-business attorneys, one advisor said:
“You can distance yourself from your father and brother.”
Antonio stared.
“Can I?”
“You weren’t involved in Saint Michael.”
“No.”
“You didn’t know.”
“No.”
“Then make that clear.”
Antonio looked at Maria’s letter on the table.
You sometimes think not knowing makes you innocent.
He shook his head.
“No.”
The attorney frowned.
“What?”
“I’m not claiming ignorance like it’s virtue.”
“Antonio—”
“I ran the family.”
“Not all of it.”
“Enough.”
He leaned back.
“If men under my name used my buildings and vehicles to frighten people, I don’t get to say I had nothing to do with it because I didn’t read the right ledger.”
Silence.
Marco sat beside him.
His son heard everything.
That mattered.
Antonio ordered a full audit of Bellini Holdings.
Legitimate businesses.
Properties.
Charitable accounts.
Every vendor.
Every off-book relationship that had somehow survived from Giovanni’s era.
Some older men objected.
Antonio let them.
Then replaced the ones who refused transparency.
Not with saints.
With professionals.
Accountants.
Compliance officers.
People who did not call him boss.
That took adjustment.
The funeral home closed for one week.
Not because of police.
Antonio decided it needed cleansing of a different kind.
Room Three was emptied.
Not hidden.
The old basement wall opened completely.
Every cavity inspected.
Every file turned over where required.
Then Antonio found something unexpected.
Dozens of envelopes.
Not criminal.
Personal.
Families who could not afford funerals.
Giovanni had paid quietly.
Hospital bills.
Burial costs.
Rent.
Scholarships.
Antonio stared at the records.
His father had done good too.
That was harder.
Simple villains are easy to bury.
Complicated parents remain alive inside you.
Carlo said:
“You okay?”
“No.”
Antonio touched one receipt.
“Dad paid for a child’s burial in 1989.”
Carlo waited.
“And protected Sal after Maria died.”
“Yes.”
Antonio looked at him.
“Both are true.”
Carlo nodded.
That became part of healing too.
Not turning dead people into monsters simply because monsters were easier to hate.
Frank asked to see Antonio.
He agreed.
They met in the empty chapel.
Frank looked older by ten years.
“You firing me?”
“Yes.”
Frank nodded.
“Fair.”
“Investigators?”
“I’m cooperating.”
“I know.”
Silence.
Then Frank looked toward Maria’s photograph near the memorial table Antonio had set up.
“I loved her.”
Antonio’s jaw tightened.
“Careful.”
“Not like that.”
“I know.”
Frank wiped his eyes.
“She was the only person who thought I could still do the right thing.”
Antonio said nothing.
“And I proved her wrong.”
“No.”
Frank looked up.
Antonio hated the next sentence.
“You proved her right too late.”
Frank started crying.
“I’m sorry.”
Antonio nodded.
“I believe you.”
Frank stared.
“Do you forgive me?”
“No.”
Immediate.
Frank looked down.
“Maybe someday.”
Antonio continued.
“Maybe not.”
Frank nodded.
“What do I do now?”
Antonio almost laughed.
“You’re sixty-three.”
“That doesn’t mean I know.”
Fair.
“Tell the truth.”
“To investigators?”
“To everyone who asks.”
Frank looked toward Maria’s photo.
“She’d like that.”
“She would complain you waited.”
They both almost smiled.
Then Antonio became serious.
“And stay away from Jenna unless she asks otherwise.”
Frank nodded.
“She hates me.”
“She has reason.”
“Yes.”
Frank left through the front doors carrying one cardboard box.
Twenty-two years reduced to desk items.
Antonio watched.
He felt no victory.
Just consequence.
That afternoon, Jenna came in wearing jeans instead of a uniform.
Lucas beside her.
No taped sneaker.
Antonio had sent new shoes.
Jenna tried to return them.
Lucas refused.
“I already wore them.”
Antonio said:
“Case closed.”
Jenna glared.
“You can’t buy things for my child without asking.”
Antonio raised an eyebrow.
“Apparently I can.”
“No.”
She held his gaze.
Antonio paused.
Then nodded.
“You’re right.”
Lucas looked disappointed.
“Do I have to give them back?”
Jenna sighed.
“No.”
Antonio smiled.
“Excellent legal ruling.”
She almost smiled.
Then became serious.
“I’m quitting.”
Antonio stopped.
“The funeral home.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
She stared.
“Seriously?”
Fair.
“Okay.”
He nodded.
“What will you do?”
“I used to work bookkeeping.”
Antonio frowned.
“Used to?”
“Before Lucas.”
“Why’d you stop?”
“His father left.”
She said it simply.
No drama.
“Night cleaning paid more than entry-level office work.”
Antonio understood.
“You found Maria’s books because you know accounting.”
“Yes.”
That explained organization.
Patterns.
Her instinct.
“I have a job for you.”
“No.”
He blinked.
“You didn’t hear it.”
“I know how mafia bosses offer jobs.”
Antonio almost laughed.
“How?”
“They sound like orders.”
Lucas nodded.
“He does.”
Antonio stared at the boy.
“Traitor.”
Lucas grinned.
Jenna continued.
“I don’t want charity.”
“It isn’t.”
“Then what?”
Antonio thought.
The audit team needed people.
Not loyal old insiders.
People who noticed uncomfortable details.
“You found in five weeks what grown men ignored for six years.”
Her expression changed.
“I want someone reviewing the funeral-home books who does not care if the Bellini name feels offended.”
Jenna looked at him suspiciously.
“Salary?”
Antonio named one.
Her eyes widened.
“No.”
“Too low?”
“Too high.”
“It’s market.”
“For what?”
“Junior forensic accounting support.”
She stared.
“You made that up.”
“My accountant did.”
That was true.
“Hours?”
“Daytime.”
“Childcare?”
Antonio stopped himself.
Old instinct: solve.
Instead:
“What do you need?”
Jenna noticed.
That question mattered.
“Predictable schedule.”
“Okay.”
“Health insurance.”
“Yes.”
“And if Lucas has school trouble, I leave.”
Antonio looked at Lucas.
“What kind of trouble?”
The boy shrugged.
“Math.”
Antonio nodded solemnly.
“Emergency.”
Jenna smiled despite herself.
“I’ll think about it.”
“Good.”
No order.
That felt strange.
Later, Lucas wandered into Antonio’s office.
Maria’s photograph stood on the desk.
Lucas wore her coat even though it was too warm.
Antonio pointed.
“You’re going to roast.”
“I like it.”
“Suit yourself.”
Lucas looked around.
“Was this where the coat was supposed to be?”
“Yes.”
“But it wasn’t.”
“No.”
“Did that make you mad?”
“Yes.”
Lucas nodded.
Then saw a framed photo of Antonio’s sons.
Marco and Daniel.
“Those your kids?”
“Yes.”
“Do they live here?”
“No.”
“Do you see them?”
Antonio frowned.
“Why?”
Lucas shrugged.
“Just asking.”
Antonio thought.
Marco worked with him daily.
Daniel lived in Boston.
Calls were irregular.
Maria’s letter again.
You do not ask enough questions when answers force choices.
Antonio picked up his phone.
Called Daniel.
His younger son answered:
“Dad?”
“Are you busy?”
A pause.
“You never ask that.”
Antonio looked at Lucas.
“I’m learning.”
Daniel laughed.
“What happened?”
Antonio smiled faintly.
“A kid stole your mother’s coat.”
Lucas shouted:
“I did not steal it!”
Daniel went silent.
Then:
“What?”
Antonio laughed.
“Long story.”
May you like
And for the first time in years, he told his son the whole thing.
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