THE WIFE WHO BOUGHT A GRAVE

Marco stared at the tiny roll of film inside the hollow crucifix.

"He hid it in the rosary," Marco whispered, a mixture of awe and grief washing over his face. "All these years, Elena’s hitmen were tearing the city apart, and it was sitting on your mother’s nightstand."

"Thomas told me never to open it unless the DeLuca family came for us," my mother said, her voice stronger now, fueled by the validation of her husband's sacrifice. "He said it was the key to dismantling their political funding."

Answer one: The rosary wasn't just a religious heirloom. It was the weapon that could destroy Elena’s untouchable political family.

I looked at Marco. "If we give this to the FBI, they can seize Elena's accounts. Without her money, her political allies will drop her. And Rocco will lose his protection."

"Exactly," Marco said, carefully extracting the microfiche. "But we have to get it to the right person. Half the federal agents in Boston are on Rocco’s payroll."

"I know someone," Rosa spoke up quietly from the booth.

We all looked at her.

"A prosecutor," Rosa said. "A young man who used to come to the bakery where I worked twenty years ago. I gave him free bread when he was studying for his exams. He is the District Attorney now. Arthur Vance."

Marco nodded. "Vance is clean. Rocco has been trying to bribe him for years."

"Then we go to Vance," I said, standing up.

But as we moved toward the diner exit, Marco’s burner phone vibrated. He looked at the screen, and his jaw locked tight.

"It's Silas," Marco said.

"He's awake," I breathed, remembering the sound the iron skillet made against his skull.

Marco answered the phone, putting it on speaker so I could hear.

"You hit hard for a waitress," Silas's voice crackled over the line, accompanied by the sound of background static.

"It's over, Silas," Marco said coldly. "We have the accounts. We have the certificate. Tell my father his empire ends tonight."

Silas gave a wet, painful laugh. "Your father's empire ended twenty minutes ago, Marco. You shouldn't have left the restaurant."

Open two: If Rocco didn't win the firefight, who did?

"What are you talking about?" Marco demanded.

"Elena didn't come to the restaurant to kill Rocco," Silas coughed. "She came to arrest him. She brought the Feds, Marco. Her own pocket agents. They raided the restaurant. They found the illegal shipments in the basement. They took Rocco in handcuffs."

Marco frowned. "Why would Elena blow up her own husband's empire?"

"Because she found out Rocco was looking for Rosa," Silas wheezed. "Elena doesn't share power. She decided it was easier to let Rocco rot in federal prison and take over the family herself. But she still needs the marriage certificate destroyed to ensure her claim."

"Where are you, Silas?" Marco asked.

"I'm bleeding out on an East Boston sidewalk," Silas laughed bitterly. "Elena’s men found me after your little waitress knocked me out. They realized I failed. They shot me to tie up loose ends."

The line went quiet for a second.

"They're coming for the women, Marco," Silas whispered, his voice fading. "Elena knows the girl helped Rosa. She's heading to the diner."

The call disconnected.

I looked out the diner window.

Two black, unmarked SUVs were pulling up to the curb, boxing in Marco's car. Four men in tactical gear stepped out. They weren't mafia thugs. They looked like private military.

"Back door," Marco ordered, grabbing my mother's arm.

We rushed through the kitchen, ignoring the shouting cook, and burst out into the alley.

Marco drew his weapon, scanning the dark brick walls. "We need a car."

"My neighbor's car," I said quickly. "He works the night shift at the docks, he leaves his keys under the floor mat of his old Honda. It’s parked on the next street."

We sprinted down the alley, the cold wind biting at our faces. We reached the rusted silver Honda. I found the key exactly where I knew it would be.

"You drive," Marco tossed me the keys. "I need to shoot."

I jumped into the driver's seat. Rosa and my mom scrambled into the back. Marco rode shotgun, rolling down the window.

I slammed the car into drive just as the tactical team rounded the corner of the alley.

Gunfire erupted, shattering the back windshield. My mother screamed, pulling Rosa down to the floorboards. I slammed on the gas, tearing out of the alley and fishtailing onto the wet Boston streets.

"Keep your head down!" Marco yelled, firing three shots back at the tactical team as they ran for their SUVs.

I navigated the narrow streets of East Boston, my hands gripping the steering wheel so tight my knuckles were white. We were heading toward the District Attorney's house in Cambridge, relying on Marco's directions.

But as we crossed the Longfellow Bridge, my phone buzzed in my pocket.

I ignored it, my eyes glued to the rearview mirror.

It buzzed again. And again.

"Answer it," Marco said, reloading his weapon. "Put it on speaker."

I fumbled for the phone and hit the green button.

"Hello?" I yelled over the rushing wind.

"Hannah Brooks," a smooth, aristocratic female voice echoed through the car. Elena DeLuca.

"How did you get this number?" I demanded.

"I have the resources of the entire city, darling," Elena purred. "I also have something else of yours."

"My apartment is empty, Elena," I spat back. "You have nothing."