Chapter 3 - THE ECHO OF A BETRAYAL
The phone nearly slipped from my sweat-slicked fingers.
The voice on the other end wasn’t Thomas.
It wasn’t the babysitter.
It was a voice I had never heard before, yet it carried a terrifying, hollow weight—like a ghost speaking from the bottom of a well.
"Where is my son?" I screamed into the receiver, not caring that I was standing in a mafia boss's security room. "If you touch him, I swear to God—"
"Your son is safely asleep on the couch," the raspy voice interrupted, chillingly calm. "The teenager you hired to watch him is also asleep. A mild sedative in her coffee. No harm done."
"Who are you?!"
"I’m the man who left a gift in your bedroom, Claire. A gift for you. And a message for Vincent."
The line went dead.
The dial tone echoed through the silent security room.
I couldn't breathe. The walls were spinning. I turned toward the door, my only thought being my six-year-old boy lying helpless in my small apartment.
"I have to go," I choked out, pushing past Vincent. "I have to get to him."
"Stop," Vincent commanded.
He didn't grab me this time, but he stepped into my path, a solid wall of dark suit and imposing authority.
"Move!" I yelled, slapping his chest. "My son is alone with a monster!"
"Your son is alive because the man on the phone wants him alive," Vincent said, his voice steady, grounding my panic. "If he wanted to hurt your boy, he wouldn't have called to brag about it."
Vincent turned to Marcus, who was already barking orders into a handheld radio.
"Marcus. Pull the cars to the front. We are going to her apartment."
"Boss, it’s a trap," Marcus warned, lowering the radio. "They planted the watch, manipulated the footage, and now they’re baiting you to a secondary location. You can’t leave the compound."
"My brother's ghost is breaking into my house and terrorizing my employees," Vincent said, his eyes turning a dangerous shade of dark brown. "I am not hiding behind these gates."
Five minutes later, I was sitting in the back of a black, armored SUV.
Vincent sat beside me, his presence like a dark, protective storm cloud.
The city flashed by the tinted windows in a blur of neon and rain.
"Tell me about your ex-husband," Vincent said suddenly, his gaze fixed on the road ahead.
"There's nothing to tell," I muttered, chewing nervously on my thumbnail. "Thomas was a drunk. He got into gambling. He got into debt. I took Leo and left him two years ago."
"Who did he owe money to?"
I looked at him. "I don't know. Bad people."
"In my city," Vincent said slowly, "all bad people answer to me. If Thomas owed money, he owed it to my ledgers. What was his last name?"
"Callahan," I said softly.
In the front seat, Marcus turned around, his face suddenly pale.
"Callahan?" Marcus repeated.
Vincent noticed the shift in his security chief instantly. "What is it, Marcus?"
Marcus swallowed hard, looking at Vincent with a mixture of fear and regret.
"Boss... Thomas Callahan wasn't just a gambler. Fifteen years ago, he was a driver for the Moretti family."
The air in the SUV vanished.
The Moretti family. The rivals who had been wiped out after J.D.'s murder.
Vincent slowly turned his head to look at me. The coldness in his eyes made my blood run like ice water.
"Your husband drove for the men who killed my brother?"
"I didn't know!" I cried, shrinking back against the leather seat. "I met Thomas ten years ago! I didn't know him back then!"
"She's lying," Marcus said from the front. "She orchestrated this. She placed the watch. She's working with Callahan."
"If I was working with him, why would he be threatening my son?!" I yelled, tears streaming down my face again. "I just wanted to clean your house and pay for Leo’s school!"
Vincent stared at me for a long, agonizing moment.
He searched my face for the lie. He looked for the hesitation.
"She didn't know," Vincent finally said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "But whoever left that watch knew exactly who she was."
The SUV screeched to a halt in front of my rundown apartment building.
Before the tires even stopped spinning, I threw the door open and sprinted up the concrete steps.
"Leo!"
I burst through the front door, the hinges groaning in protest.
The living room was dark, illuminated only by the flicker of the muted television.
On the worn-out fabric couch, my six-year-old son was curled in a tight ball, his thumb resting near his mouth. His chest rose and fell in a steady, peaceful rhythm.
I collapsed onto my knees beside the couch, burying my face in his soft hair, inhaling the scent of his strawberry shampoo.
He was safe.
He was untouched.
In the armchair nearby, Sarah, the teenage babysitter, was slumped over, snoring softly.
Heavy footsteps echoed behind me. Vincent and Marcus entered the small apartment, their expensive suits looking completely out of place in my cheap, cramped living room.
Vincent walked directly past the couch and headed straight down the short hallway to my bedroom.
"He said he left a gift," Vincent reminded me.
I kissed Leo's forehead one more time before standing up and following Vincent.
The bedroom was untouched. Nothing was broken. Nothing was out of place.
Except for my bed.
Right in the center of my cheap quilt lay a small, velvet jewelry box.
It was open.
Vincent stood over it, rigid, his breathing suddenly shallow.
I stepped closer, peering over his shoulder.
Resting on the velvet was a beautiful, antique silver rosary. The beads were made of dark onyx, and the crucifix was heavily worn, as if someone had prayed on it a thousand times.
"Do you know what this is?" Vincent asked, his voice cracking.
"No," I whispered.
"It belonged to my mother," Vincent said, reaching out to touch the cross with a trembling finger. "She gave it to J.D. the night he died. It was buried with him."
A chill ran down my spine.
"Someone dug up his grave?" I asked, horrified.
Vincent didn't answer. He picked up the rosary.
As the heavy beads lifted from the box, a small piece of folded paper slipped from underneath them and fluttered to the floor.
Marcus picked it up and unfolded it.
His face drained of all color.
"What does it say?" Vincent demanded.
May you like
Marcus slowly turned the paper around so we could see the handwritten words.
Dig up the grave, Vincent. See what you find.
