Chapter 5 - THE SINS OF THE FATHER
The DeLuca compound was a fortress preparing for war.
By noon the next day, fifty armed men patrolled the perimeter. Security cameras were recalibrated, windows were shuttered, and the tension in the air was thick enough to choke on.
I was sitting in the massive kitchen, a cup of untouched tea growing cold between my hands.
Leo was sitting at the island counter, happily coloring a picture of a dragon, completely oblivious to the army of men outside protecting him from a ghost.
"Mommy, why are we at the castle?" Leo asked, swinging his little legs.
"Mr. DeLuca needed my help with a very big cleaning job, baby," I lied, forcing a warm smile. "We get to have a sleepover here tonight."
"Cool," Leo said, immediately going back to his coloring.
I turned my head as the heavy kitchen doors swung open.
Vincent walked in. He had changed out of his muddy suit and wore a dark sweater and slacks, but the exhaustion etched into his face made him look ten years older.
He walked over and poured himself a cup of black coffee.
He stood next to Leo, watching my son color for a long moment.
"You stay inside the lines," Vincent observed quietly.
Leo looked up, offering the terrifying mafia boss a gap-toothed smile. "My mom says if you rush, you make mistakes."
Vincent’s jaw tightened. "Your mom is a very smart woman."
He turned his gaze to me. "Walk with me, Claire."
I patted Leo’s shoulder and followed Vincent into the grand hallway, the heavy oak doors shutting behind us.
"What's happening?" I asked immediately, keeping my voice low.
"Marcus tracked down the retired coroner, Dr. Aris," Vincent said, walking toward the study. "He didn't make it to Florida. He's been living under a fake name two towns over."
"Did he confess to faking the death certificate?"
Vincent stopped at the study door and turned to face me.
"He confessed to something much worse."
Vincent pushed the door open.
Inside the study, tied to a heavy wooden chair, was a frail, elderly man. His face was bruised, and he was trembling uncontrollably.
Marcus stood behind him, his face devoid of any emotion.
"Tell her," Vincent commanded, leaning against the doorframe.
The old man looked at me with terrified, watery eyes.
"I... I didn't want to do it," Dr. Aris stammered. "But they told me if I didn't declare him dead on arrival, they would kill my entire family."
"Who?" I asked. "Who told you?"
"The Moretti family," the doctor cried. "They brought J.D. into the morgue. He had been shot twice, but he was breathing. He was going to survive."
"So why bury him alive?" I demanded, feeling sick to my stomach.
"They didn't!" The doctor sobbed. "They needed a body to show Vincent so the war would stop. We used a vagrant. A John Doe who looked somewhat similar. We messed up the face, dressed him in J.D.'s clothes, and put him in the box."
My mind raced.
"Wait," I said, turning to Vincent. "If it was a vagrant in the coffin... then the ripped silk inside..."
Vincent’s eyes darkened with a terrifying realization.
"The vagrant wasn't entirely dead either when they nailed it shut," Vincent whispered, the horror of the reality settling into his bones.
I took a step back, my hand covering my mouth.
"Then where is your brother?" I asked. "If J.D. didn't die that night, where has he been for fifteen years?"
"He was sold," a new voice echoed from the corner of the room.
I spun around.
Standing in the shadows by the bookshelf was my ex-husband.
Thomas.
He looked terrible. His face was bruised, his clothes were torn, and his hands were zip-tied behind his back. Two of Vincent’s guards were holding him upright.
"Thomas?" I gasped.
"Hello, Claire," Thomas spat, a bitter smile touching his lips. "Sorry I dragged you into this."
Vincent crossed the room in three massive strides, grabbing Thomas by the throat and slamming him into the bookshelf. Books rained down on them.
"Where is my brother?!" Vincent roared.
"Choking me won't give you the answer," Thomas wheezed, his eyes bulging. "I just drove the car, DeLuca. I drove the car that took J.D. away."
Vincent loosened his grip just enough for Thomas to breathe.
"To where?" Vincent growled.
"To the Russians," Thomas laughed, a wet, ugly sound. "The Morettis didn't want to kill him. They wanted him to suffer. They sold him to a labor camp in Siberia. A ghost ship took him out of Pier 44 fifteen years ago."
I stared at Thomas, a man I had slept next to for eight years. A man who had held my son. He had harbored this monstrous secret the entire time.
"Why now?" I asked, stepping closer to him. "Why are you involved now, Thomas?"
Thomas looked at me, all the humor draining from his face.
"Because last week," Thomas whispered, "J.D. came back."
Vincent let go of Thomas’s throat.
"And he wants his life back, Vincent," Thomas continued, coughing. "He used me to plant the watch in your house. He used Claire because he knew you wouldn't kill a woman with a kid. He wants you at the pier tonight. Just you."
Vincent stepped back, straightening his sweater.
"Fine," Vincent said coldly. "I'll go."
"Boss, it's suicide," Marcus argued. "We don't know what he's become. Fifteen years in a Russian gulag... he's not your brother anymore. He's a weapon."
"He is blood!" Vincent snapped.
Suddenly, Marcus’s radio crackled to life.
"Boss," a frantic voice yelled over the static. "Boss, come to the front gates! Now!"
Vincent, Marcus, and I ran out of the study and sprinted down the long hallway toward the front entrance.
When we pushed the heavy double doors open, the sight before us made the blood freeze in my veins.
A black sedan was parked sideways across the compound gates.
The driver's side door was open.
Slumped over the steering wheel, bleeding heavily from a gunshot wound to the shoulder, was Sarah. Leo’s teenage babysitter.
But it wasn't the blood that made me scream.
Taped to the windshield of the car was a child's blue jacket.
Leo's jacket.
I spun around, staring wildly back into the mansion.
"Leo!" I screamed, my voice tearing my throat apart. "LEO!"
I ran back to the kitchen.
The crayons were scattered across the counter. The dragon picture was half-finished.
May you like
But the stool was empty.
My son was gone.
