Chapter 2 - The Confession In The Funeral Home
The silence in the viewing room was no longer just eerie; it was suffocating. The scent of white lilies and polished mahogany mixed with the sudden, sharp metallic tang of fear sweat rolling off Marco’s neck.
Bruno did not break his stare. The Rottweiler’s low rumble vibrated through the floorboards, a relentless engine of pure instinct.
"What wasn't supposed to happen like that, Marco?" I repeated, my voice dropping to a register that made the funeral director quietly slip out the back doors.
Marco’s expensive tailored suit suddenly looked two sizes too big for him. He wiped a trembling hand across his mouth. "Boss, you know me. I’ve taken bullets for you. I’ve buried men in the Pine Barrens for you."
"I asked you a question about a seven-year-old girl," I said, stepping closer. "Don't recite your resume."
Marco looked at Tony, seeking a lifeline. Tony’s hand dropped subtly toward his waistband, his loyalty to me absolute. Marco was entirely alone.
"I was driving," Marco finally choked out, the words tearing out of his throat like rusted nails. "I was driving the car that hit her."
A collective intake of breath swept through my men. I didn't move. The coldness inside me crystallized into ice.
"You did a hit-and-run on a child?" I asked softly.
"It was raining!" Marco pleaded, stepping backward until his spine hit the wall. "I was on my way to Hector’s restaurant to collect the forty-two grand. She darted out from between two parked cars. I slammed on the brakes, boss, I swear to God I did. But I felt the thud. I panicked. If the cops found me there, they’d look in the trunk. I had two hundred kilos of product in the back!"
The explanation provided an answer, but it instantly tore open two massive, glaring holes in his story.
"We haven't moved product in trunks for three years, Marco," I said, the coldness spreading. "We use the commercial freight trucks. And more importantly, you weren't assigned to collect from Hector Vasquez. Tony was."
Marco’s eyes widened in sheer panic. He had talked himself into a corner.
Before I could demand the truth, the heavy double doors of the viewing room burst open.
Hector Vasquez stumbled in. The grieving father looked like a ghost, his clothes rumpled, his eyes bloodshot and hollow. He wasn't looking at the casket. He was looking directly at me.
Tony moved to intercept him, but I raised a hand. "Let him speak."
Hector didn't attack. He didn't scream. Instead, he pulled a crumpled, blood-stained envelope from his jacket pocket and shoved it into my chest.
"I don't want your blood money," Hector wept, his voice cracking with a devastating sorrow. "You think paying her medical bills clears your conscience? You think this buys my silence?"
I looked down at the envelope. "I didn't pay your medical bills, Hector."
"Don't lie to me!" Hector shouted, pointing a shaking finger at the paper. "The hospital administrator gave me that receipt an hour ago! The man who paid it signed your name!"
I pulled the receipt from the envelope. It was a cash payment for sixty thousand dollars, signed with my exact signature. But tucked behind the receipt was something else. A heavy, silver signet ring with a chipped onyx stone.
I held the ring up. It caught the dim light of the funeral home.
May you like
Marco gasped, his hand instinctively flying to his bare right pinky finger.
"If you were just a panicked driver, Marco," I said, staring at the ring he must have dropped at the hospital. "Why were you paying for her life support under my name?"
