Chapter 3 - THE EMPTY COFFIN
It was after midnight when we reached Saint Michael’s Cemetery.
Rain had started again.
Of course it had.
Some cruel part of the universe apparently believed every important moment involving Mateo required rain.
Three years earlier, I had stood beneath a black umbrella while workers lowered a white child-sized casket into the earth.
Tonight, floodlights illuminated the same patch of ground as a backhoe carefully removed soil from the grave.
Nobody spoke.
Dominic stood beside me.
Lorenzo remained near the cemetery gate with two trusted men.
Elena had stayed at the mansion with Leo under a security detail I personally doubled before leaving.
I had wanted to bring the baby.
Then I realized how insane that was.
Whatever waited beneath the ground belonged to the dead.
Leo belonged to the living.
The cemetery director approached me nervously.
“Mr. Moretti, the court paperwork—”
“Was handled.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then stop talking.”
He did.
The workers reached the burial vault.
My stomach tightened.
Every shovel of dirt felt like someone scraping against my ribs.
Dominic glanced at me.
“You don’t have to watch.”
“Yes, I do.”
Three years ago, I had allowed other people to decide what I could survive seeing.
Never again.
The concrete vault opened.
The small white casket appeared.
For one second, my body reacted before my mind did.
My knees weakened.
My throat closed.
I remembered Mateo trying to stand in his crib.
Mateo throwing peas at my suit.
Mateo falling asleep on my chest during a thunderstorm.
The casket was lifted onto a platform.
A medical examiner waited beside it.
I had chosen a woman from outside New York.
Dr. Evelyn Shaw.
No connections to my family.
No connections to Bellini.
No possibility that Salvatore had paid for her loyalty years earlier.
She put on gloves.
“Mr. Moretti, once I open this—”
“Open it.”
Dominic’s jaw tightened.
The latches clicked.
One.
Two.
Three.
The lid rose.
I had prepared for decomposition.
Bones.
Fabric.
The final brutal proof that hope had made me a fool.
Instead, Dr. Shaw froze.
Dominic stepped forward.
“What?”
I already knew.
There was no body.
Inside the casket lay several bags filled with sand beneath a folded infant blanket.
My son’s blanket.
Blue with tiny silver stars.
Valentina had sewn his initials into one corner.
M.M.
I picked it up.
My hands shook.
There was no Mateo.
No bones.
No remains.
Nothing.
For three years, I had spoken to an empty box.
My vision went red.
Dominic grabbed my arm.
“Luca.”
I barely heard him.
I threw the casket lid backward.
It crashed against the platform.
The cemetery director jumped.
“WHO SIGNED THE BURIAL RECORD?”
“Mr. Moretti—”
“WHO?”
He fumbled through the paperwork.
“Dr. Bellini certified the sealed remains. Your uncle’s office arranged—”
I turned away before I killed an innocent man.
Salvatore.
Uncle Salvatore.
The man who had taught me to shoot.
The man who had stood beside me after my father died.
The man who had held me at Mateo’s funeral while I came apart.
I pulled out my phone.
Dominic caught my wrist.
“No.”
I looked at him.
“Move.”
“If Salvatore did this, calling him tells him we know.”
“I’m going to ask where my son is.”
“And he’ll lie.”
“I’ll know.”
“Knowing he’s lying won’t bring Mateo home.”
The truth cut through my rage.
I lowered the phone.
Dominic released me.
Dr. Shaw examined the blanket.
“There’s dried blood here.”
I looked over.
A dark brown stain marked one corner.
“Can you test it?”
“Yes.”
“How fast?”
“I can have preliminary DNA comparison by morning if your sample is available.”
“It will be.”
Lorenzo approached from the gate.
“We have a problem.”
“What?”
“My investigator isn’t answering.”
“Since when?”
“He was supposed to check in thirty minutes ago.”
Dominic’s expression hardened.
“Name?”
“Peter Hale.”
“Location?”
“Hotel near LaGuardia.”
I turned to one of my men.
“Send a team.”
Lorenzo shook his head.
“If somebody knows we’re digging into Bright Horizons—”
“They may already know about the grave.”
A sound behind us interrupted him.
Metal scraping stone.
Dominic moved instantly.
His gun appeared.
The cemetery lights went out.
Darkness swallowed the graveyard.
“DOWN!”
Gunfire ripped through the night.
I dropped behind the concrete burial vault as bullets tore into the platform.
Dr. Shaw screamed.
Lorenzo pulled her down.
Dominic fired toward flashes between the trees.
“East fence!”
Our men returned fire.
I crawled toward the cemetery director and dragged him behind a headstone as another bullet cracked through marble.
Then I saw movement near the mausoleum.
A shooter.
I aimed.
Fired twice.
The figure dropped.
A black SUV roared beyond the fence.
Tires screamed.
Then silence returned except for rain and someone groaning near the gate.
Dominic rushed to me.
“You hit?”
“No.”
He checked anyway.
I shoved him off.
“Shaw?”
“I’m fine,” the medical examiner called shakily.
Lorenzo stood.
“This wasn’t random.”
“No.”
I looked at the open coffin.
Someone had tried to kill us less than ten minutes after we discovered it was empty.
That meant the secret was still worth protecting.
Which meant Mateo might still be alive.
We found the shooter I had hit beside the mausoleum.
He was alive.
Barely.
Dominic rolled him over.
I recognized him.
Not personally.
But I knew the tattoo on his wrist.
A black crown above three lines.
Salvatore’s private security unit.
My uncle used them for jobs he didn’t want connected to the Moretti organization.
The wounded man laughed weakly when he saw my face.
“Boss.”
I crouched beside him.
“Where is my son?”
He smiled through blood.
“No idea.”
I pressed my thumb into his wound.
His smile disappeared.
“Where is Mateo?”
“Go to hell.”
Dominic leaned closer.
“Who sent you?”
The shooter’s eyes shifted.
That was enough.
“Salvatore,” I said.
He said nothing.
My phone rang.
Unknown number.
Every instinct in my body warned me.
I answered.
“Luca.”
My uncle’s voice.
Warm.
Calm.
Familiar.
As if we were discussing Sunday dinner.
“Salvatore.”
“I heard there was some unpleasantness at Saint Michael’s.”
I stared at the wounded man.
“You heard quickly.”
“I hear most things.”
“Where is Mateo?”
Silence.
Then Salvatore sighed.
“You’re emotional.”
My hand tightened around the phone.
“My son’s coffin is empty.”
“Yes.”
One word.
No denial.
No surprise.
Just yes.
Dominic stared at me.
I rose slowly.
“You knew.”
“I knew you would eventually find out.”
“Where is he?”
“You need to come home.”
“Tell me now.”
“Not over the phone.”
“If you hurt him—”
“Luca.”
His voice sharpened.
“For once in your life, stop reacting like a weapon and think like a father.”
I almost laughed.
“You stole my child and want to lecture me about fatherhood?”
“You still don’t understand what happened.”
“Then explain it.”
“I will.”
A pause.
“Tomorrow night. Family dinner. Seven o’clock.”
“I’m not waiting.”
“You will if you want answers.”
The call ended.
I stared at the screen.
Dominic spoke first.
“It’s a trap.”
“Yes.”
“You’re still going.”
“Yes.”
Lorenzo wiped rain from his face.
“What do we do until then?”
I looked at the empty grave.
“We find out what Bright Horizons is.”
By four in the morning, my men had located Peter Hale.
He was dead in his hotel room.
Single gunshot.
Laptop missing.
Phone destroyed.
But he had mailed something to Lorenzo twelve hours earlier.
An envelope.
Inside were seven printed photographs.
The first showed a private pediatric facility in rural Connecticut.
The second showed a black sedan registered to one of Salvatore’s shell companies.
The third showed Dr. Bellini entering the building.
The fourth showed a little boy playing behind a fence.
My hands stopped working.
The photograph slipped from my fingers.
Dominic picked it up.
The child looked approximately four years old.
Dark curls.
Brown eyes.
A serious expression.
A small wooden airplane in one hand.
He wore a red sweater.
The picture had been taken six days earlier.
On the back, Hale had written three words.
SUBJECT: MATTHEW BELL.
Matthew.
Mateo.
My knees hit the chair.
Dominic’s voice went rough.
“My God.”
I touched the photograph.
Three years.
Three years of birthdays missed.
Three years of first words.
First steps.
Nightmares.
Fevers.
Christmas mornings.
Three years believing my boy was dead while someone else watched him grow.
Then I noticed something else.
The child’s left hand was visible.
Wrapped around the wooden airplane.
On his wrist was a thin leather bracelet.
Valentina had bought Mateo that bracelet in Florence before he was born.
She had insisted he would grow into it.
My son was alive.
I looked at Dominic.
“Get the cars.”
“We should wait until daylight.”
“No.”
“Luca—”
“My son has waited three years.”
I stood.
“Bright Horizons.”
Dominic checked his gun.
Lorenzo reached for his coat.
I looked once more at the photograph.
At the face I had buried.
At the little boy somewhere in Connecticut who had no idea his father was coming.
“Mateo,” I whispered.
May you like
Then I made a promise to the photograph.
“No one is keeping me from you again.”
