Chapter 4 - GIANNA BURIED HER BROTHER ON TELEVISION WHILE HE WATCHED FROM A HOSPITAL BED
Gianna’s press conference began at noon.
Lorenzo watched from a secure hospital room while a drainage tube came out of his side.
I watched from the parish apartment with Emma asleep across my lap.
The entire city watched because the Duca name had spent forty years making itself impossible to ignore.
Gianna stood at the front steps of Duca Holdings headquarters dressed in black.
White calla lilies had been arranged behind her.
Of course.
She had ordered them for Lorenzo’s coffin before anyone had recovered a body.
That detail made my skin crawl.
Her voice broke beautifully.
“My brother Lorenzo died protecting the stability of this family and the businesses entrusted to us.”
Lie.
“We will not retaliate recklessly against those responsible.”
Bigger lie.
“We will honor his legacy through discipline.”
A reporter shouted:
“Has a body been recovered?”
Gianna’s expression faltered for less than half a second.
“Investigators are working.”
Another:
“How can the board recognize succession without death certificate?”
“Our counsel has confirmed the trust contains emergency incapacity provisions.”
Interesting.
Not death now.
Incapacity.
She was adjusting.
Because no body existed.
A reporter asked:
“Is there evidence Chicago organized crime was responsible?”
Gianna looked directly into cameras.
“We have every reason to believe so.”
No.
She had every reason to need us to believe so.
Then Marco appeared beside her.
He was alive.
Not the same Marco? Wait seed recording had "Oh, and Marco?" and voice outside said "Marco said Duca took two rounds". So Marco is hit organizer, likely Gianna lieutenant. In our story we have Marco as conspirator. Good.
Marco stood in navy suit, grief perfectly rehearsed.
I remembered the voice outside shed:
Marco said Duca took two rounds in the side.
He knew.
He had coordinated.
Gianna concluded:
“Until the killers are brought to justice, I ask for privacy.”
I almost threw remote.
Instead Emma stirred.
I held still.
Her peace mattered more than my rage.
At hospital, Lorenzo did not hold still.
His attorney later told me he tried to get out of bed when Gianna mentioned “honoring his legacy.”
Two nurses forced him back.
One threatened restraints.
He reportedly told her:
“Do you know who I am?”
She answered:
“A surgical patient who is about to tear his sutures.”
I liked her immediately.
The legal situation turned complicated quickly.
Salvatore’s 2012 living trust contained three relevant clauses.
If Lorenzo died without a legally recognized spouse or child, Gianna assumed controlling stewardship.
If he became medically incapacitated, an emergency co-trustee structure activated.
If any beneficiary caused another beneficiary’s death or incapacity through criminal conduct, that beneficiary could be suspended pending independent review.
The problem?
The board had been packed with Gianna allies.
Not all criminal.
Some simply obedient.
Lorenzo’s first instinct was to call them privately.
Rebecca Sloan stopped him.
“If Gianna knows you survived before police finish securing evidence, witnesses scatter.”
“They already may.”
“Yes.”
“Then why wait?”
“Because being alive is leverage.”
He hated that.
But listened.
The city believed Lorenzo Duca dead for another forty-six hours.
During that time, Gianna moved aggressively.
She froze three corporate accounts.
Reassigned estate security.
Dismissed two executives loyal to Lorenzo.
Ordered internal systems wiped “for cybersecurity after hostile attack.”
Luckily, law enforcement had already served preservation notices.
She did not know.
Marco visited the estate bunker after police cleared the property.
He found federal evidence seals.
That was when Gianna realized something had gone wrong.
Her next press appearance was canceled.
Then someone visited me.
Donna Celeste Duca.
Lorenzo and Gianna’s seventy-six-year-old aunt.
She arrived at Saint Gabriel’s wearing a fur-lined coat and enough perfume to announce herself from the street.
Detective Blake checked her.
She complained.
Good.
I met her downstairs.
“You’re the maid.”
“Former maid eventually, hopefully.”
Her eyebrows rose.
“I like you.”
“That makes one Duca woman.”
Celeste smiled.
“I never liked Gianna.”
“Why are you here?”
“Because Lorenzo’s attorney called.”
Rebecca appeared behind.
“I did.”
Celeste carried a leather folio.
“The 2012 trust original.”
Rebecca’s face changed.
“You have it?”
“Salvatore gave me sealed copy.”
“Why?”
“He didn’t trust Victor.”
Interesting.
“And you waited?”
Celeste shrugged.
“Until someone killed one of my brother’s children.”
I swallowed.
“He’s alive.”
She stared.
Rebecca said:
“Confidential.”
Celeste sat hard.
“What?”
“Lorenzo survived.”
The old woman closed her eyes.
Then slapped Rebecca’s arm.
“You let me mourn two days.”
“For evidence preservation.”
“I hate lawyers.”
“Universal.”
Celeste cried quietly.
Then handed over folio.
An original amendment.
Not the version Gianna’s board used.
Clause 14.
No succession authority shall transfer on declaration of death absent verified remains, judicial finding, or continuous absence of ninety days, except by unanimous vote of disinterested trustees.
Gianna’s emergency takeover was vulnerable.
Even better, another clause:
Any trustee implicated by credible evidence in violence against a beneficiary must be suspended pending independent investigation.
Lorenzo did not need to reveal himself publicly yet.
The recording itself could suspend Gianna.
Rebecca filed emergency petition under seal.
A judge granted temporary injunction.
By 6:30 that evening, Duca Holdings’ bank accounts were unfrozen under independent oversight.
Gianna’s authority suspended.
The board informed only that credible evidence existed.
She exploded.
How do I know?
Because the bunker recordings captured her.
Police had activated only preserved system feeds under warrant.
Gianna entered the library with Marco.
She screamed:
“He’s alive.”
Marco went pale.
“We don’t know.”
“He’s alive.”
“How?”
“That maid.”
My stomach tightened.
Gianna continued.
“She had medical training.”
“Daniel’s widow.”
Marco stared.
“Daniel Ellis?”
“Yes.”
He cursed.
There.
They knew my husband.
Gianna paced.
“If Lorenzo lives, trust fails.”
Marco:
“Then finish it.”
My blood went cold.
Gianna stopped.
“No.”
Interesting.
“Why?”
“Because now everyone watches.”
Then:
“Find the woman.”
“Use the child if necessary.”
I stopped breathing.
Emma slept beside me.
Rebecca immediately contacted police.
My temporary location changed within an hour.
No dramatic refusal.
No pride.
My daughter came first.
We moved to a protected apartment arranged through authorities and an independent domestic-security nonprofit.
Not Lorenzo’s mansion.
Not his ownership.
Good.
The next morning Lorenzo made a decision.
He went public.
Not because healed.
Because Gianna had named Emma.
At 9:00 a.m., Duca Holdings released a live video.
Lorenzo sat in hospital chair.
Pale.
Bandaged.
The yellow bear Band-Aid still stuck above his eyebrow.
He had refused to remove it.
I laughed when I saw.
The city lost its mind.
LORENZO DUCA ALIVE
Gianna’s entire narrative collapsed.
Lorenzo looked into camera.
“My sister announced my death without a body.”
His voice remained calm.
“I have provided law enforcement with evidence relating to the attack against me.”
No threats.
No vengeance.
“I will not speculate publicly about criminal responsibility.”
That was almost saintlike by Duca standards.
Then:
“Effective immediately, I have requested independent oversight of all Duca Holdings governance until the courts determine succession and criminal matters.”
Reporters would hate lack of drama.
Then he looked down.
For one second, the feared man vanished.
He touched yellow bear Band-Aid.
“This survived longer than expected.”
I laughed.
Emma saw.
“Mine!”
“Yes.”
She climbed onto couch.
“Giant!”
“Yes.”
“He better?”
“Yes.”
She nodded.
“Good.”
There it was again.
On screen Lorenzo continued.
“One final matter.”
His expression changed.
“Any person attempting to approach Mara Ellis or her daughter outside lawful channels will be reported directly to authorities.”
Not:
My men will handle you.
Reported.
Then:
“They are witnesses and civilians.”
Civilians.
Not his.
Good.
“Leave them alone.”
The video ended.
Three hours later, Gianna’s attorney announced she had no knowledge of the attack and accused unnamed parties of manipulating an injured Lorenzo.
Marco disappeared.
That was bad.
His phone went dark.
His home empty.
Vehicle found near airport.
No record of flight.
Police searched.
Lorenzo demanded updates.
No private pursuit.
Still good.
Then Detective Blake came to me with news.
Daniel’s car had been reexamined.
The retained evidence photographs showed brake-line damage inconsistent with collision alone.
A mechanic who had inspected the car before insurance disposal had written one note nobody followed:
Possible pre-impact hydraulic failure — source undetermined.
Now they had Daniel’s recording.
Gianna discussing moving him.
Marco referencing Mill Creek guardrail.
It was enough to reopen the case as suspected homicide.
I sat down.
Emma played nearby.
My husband had not died because of rain.
Someone had chosen road.
Chosen timing.
Chosen me becoming a widow.
I began crying.
Not elegantly.
Loudly.
Emma came running.
“Mommy?”
I opened arms.
She climbed in.
“Why sad?”
“Daddy.”
She touched my face.
“Daddy in stars?”
“Yes.”
“Did giant know Daddy?”
“No.”
Not really.
Then my phone rang.
Lorenzo.
I almost ignored.
Answered.
“Blake told me.”
Silence.
“Mara.”
“What?”
“I’m sorry.”
I closed eyes.
“You keep saying that.”
“Because my family keeps giving me reasons.”
That almost made me laugh.
Then:
“I want to help.”
“No.”
He was quiet.
I continued.
“Not with money.”
“Not with men.”
“Not by deciding.”
“What do you need?”
There.
I breathed.
“I need Daniel’s death investigated.”
“Yes.”
“I need Emma safe.”
“Yes.”
“I need my job officially terminated with wages owed and references intact.”
Lorenzo paused.
Then:
“You’re quitting?”
“I am not cleaning your sister’s champagne glasses after she tried to have you murdered.”
Fair.
He almost laughed.
“Done.”
“And I need time.”
“For?”
I did not answer.
Everything.
Grief.
Fear.
The strange pull in my chest whenever I heard his voice.
“Just time.”
Lorenzo said:
“Okay.”
Not disappointed.
Not bargaining.
May you like
Okay.
And for the first time in my life, a powerful man heard uncertainty from me and did not try to turn it into permission.
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