Chapter 7 - The Mother Who Attended Her Own Funeral
Josephine did not run to the door.
She had learned something during the previous twenty-four hours.
People who came back from the dead usually brought damage with them.
Dante went first.
Andrew followed.
Josephine walked last.
The woman waiting beneath the porch light was sixty-three.
Same height Josephine remembered.
Same blue-gray eyes.
Same small mole beneath her left ear.
Her hair had gone white.
Josephine stopped.
“Mom?”
Helen Miller began crying.
Josephine did not.
Not yet.
“You died.”
Helen nodded.
“I know.”
“I buried you.”
“I know.”
“Stop saying you know.”
Helen flinched.
Josephine stepped closer.
“You let me bury you too?”
“I had no choice.”
“That sentence is becoming very popular.”
Andrew lowered his gaze.
Helen looked at him.
“You told her.”
“He didn’t,” Josephine said. “A microSD card did.”
Her mother’s mouth tightened.
“You found Michael’s archive.”
“I found enough to learn almost everybody in my life has lied to me.”
Helen closed her eyes.
Josephine continued.
“Were you sick?”
“No.”
“Cancer?”
“No.”
“The hospital?”
“Paid.”
“Death certificate?”
“Forged.”
“Funeral?”
“Closed coffin.”
Josephine laughed bitterly.
“Apparently that should have been a clue.”
Helen reached for her.
Josephine stepped back.
“Not yet.”
Her mother’s hand fell.
Dante spoke.
“My father.”
Helen looked at him.
“You grew into him.”
Dante’s expression hardened.
“That isn’t a compliment.”
“It wasn’t intended as one.”
“Is he alive?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
Dante stared at her.
Helen held the stare.
“He disappeared after Elena died.”
“You said he was still alive.”
“I know because he contacted me three weeks ago.”
“Why?”
“He wants Josephine.”
Dante’s gaze shifted.
Josephine folded her arms.
“Everyone wants me. It’s exhausting.”
Helen almost smiled.
Then her expression broke.
“I’m sorry.”
Josephine shook her head.
“No. You get one chance. Explain from the beginning.”
They sat around the same table where minutes earlier Josephine had watched a video of her dead mother.
Helen began with Michael Moretti.
He had been twenty-seven when she met him.
He had already been married once.
Already connected to a family organization he despised.
“He wanted to leave,” Helen said.
“Why didn’t he?”
“Because leaving isn’t resignation paperwork in that family.”
Dante did not object.
Michael collected proof against his brother Carlo and Dante’s father, Vittorio.
He planned to cooperate with prosecutors.
Before he could, Carlo discovered the plan.
Michael was killed.
Helen was pregnant with Josephine.
Leonard Vale helped her disappear.
“What about Michael’s embryos?” Josephine asked.
Helen’s face tightened.
“That came later.”
“Rebecca created Lucas.”
“Yes.”
“Did you know?”
“Not until after he was born.”
Josephine rubbed her forehead.
“And your death?”
Helen looked at Andrew.
“He discovered me.”
Josephine stared at him.
Andrew nodded.
“Ten years ago?”
“Yes.”
“You knew my mother was alive before we were married?”
“No. I discovered her shortly after.”
Josephine stood.
She needed distance.
Every memory now had a hidden room behind it.
Her wedding day.
Her mother’s empty seat.
Andrew holding her hand during the ceremony.
He had known.
“Were you both there?” Josephine asked.
Helen frowned.
“Where?”
“My wedding.”
Silence.
Josephine laughed once.
“Of course.”
Andrew said softly, “Your mother watched from a car across the street.”
Josephine turned away.
She walked to the window.
The reflection staring back no longer felt like hers.
Dante stood several feet behind.
He did not touch her.
That restraint mattered.
Helen continued.
“After Elena died, I knew Carlo had started searching for Michael’s evidence again.”
Dante looked at her.
“How did Elena find you?”
“She was smart.”
A shadow crossed his face.
“She believed her father wasn’t responsible for Michael’s death.”
“Was she right?”
Helen hesitated.
“Vittorio knew afterward. He helped hide it. But Carlo ordered the killing.”
Dante leaned back.
“My father let me believe Michael betrayed us.”
“Yes.”
“And Elena died trying to correct his lie.”
“Yes.”
Dante’s expression became unreadable.
Josephine saw his fingers tighten around the chair.
A man feared across Chicago reduced to a son discovering his family had consumed itself.
Helen looked at Josephine.
“I faked my death because Carlo found me.”
“So you abandoned me.”
“I protected you.”
Josephine turned.
“You keep using that word.”
“It’s true.”
“No. Protection is locking a door. Protection is standing between someone and danger. You people call disappearance protection because it helps you sleep.”
Helen’s eyes filled.
“You’re right.”
The admission stopped Josephine.
“I was afraid.”
Helen’s voice cracked.
“I watched what they did to Michael. I watched Elena die. I thought if you believed I was gone, your grief would eventually fade.”
“It didn’t.”
“I know.”
Josephine closed her eyes.
At least Helen finally understood that knowledge was not absolution.
Dante’s phone rang.
One of his men.
He listened.
“Say it again.”
Pause.
“How many?”
Another pause.
Dante stood.
“What happened?” Andrew asked.
“My warehouse in Cicero was hit.”
“Carlo?”
“Maybe.”
Dante ended the call.
“Twelve men dead.”
Helen went pale.
“This is starting.”
“What?” Josephine asked.
“A succession war.”
Josephine stared.
“I’m not succeeding anyone.”
Helen looked directly at her.
“They won’t care.”
Andrew swore.
Dante paced.
“If Carlo proves Michael’s heir exists, he can unite the older crews against me.”
“Why?” Josephine asked.
“Because some of them believed Michael should have led the family.”
“I’m a real-estate consultant.”
“They’ll teach you.”
“No, they won’t.”
Dante almost smiled.
“I’m beginning to believe that.”
Helen reached into her coat.
Dante’s guards immediately moved.
She slowly removed an envelope.
“I came because of this.”
She placed it on the table.
Addressed to Josephine.
Handwritten.
Michael Moretti.
Josephine stared.
“My father wrote this?”
“Before he died.”
“Why didn’t you give it to me?”
“I was told not to unless the family came for you.”
Josephine picked it up.
The paper felt impossibly old.
She opened it.
My daughter,
If you are reading this, then I failed to keep you beyond the reach of my name.
Do not inherit my war.
Do not let men who speak of blood convince you blood is destiny.
And above all, never trust Carlo—
The letter ended.
The bottom half had been torn away.
Josephine looked at Helen.
“Where’s the rest?”
Her mother shook her head.
“It was complete when I stored it.”
Dante examined the tear.
“Recent.”
Helen’s face changed.
“No.”
“What?”
“I kept it in a bank box.”
Andrew asked, “Who had access?”
Helen whispered one name.
“Vittorio.”
Dante stood so quickly the chair fell backward.
“My father.”
Helen nodded.
Josephine understood.
Vittorio Moretti had been alive all along.
He had accessed the letter.
He had known Josephine existed.
Dante’s phone vibrated again.
A text.
Unknown number.
One photograph.
Vittorio Moretti sat in Josephine’s townhouse.
In Andrew’s favorite chair.
The missing half of Michael’s letter lay on the table before him.
Below the photograph was a message.
BRING MY NIECE HOME.
Dante looked at Josephine.
Another message arrived.
May you like
COME ALONE, JOSEPHINE.
THEN I’LL TELL YOU WHICH OF THESE MEN KILLED YOUR FATHER.
