Chapter 4 - The Gallery of Mourners
St. Jude’s Cathedral was cavernous, smelling of burning beeswax, incense, and wet wool. Outside, a steady drizzle fell over the city, mirroring the bleakness of the occasion. Inside, the pews were packed with men in dark charcoal suits and women in conservative black dresses.
I sat in the third row of the elevated choir loft, partially concealed behind a massive stone pillar. A small microphone was pinned inside the lapel of my navy jacket; a micro-earpiece hummed softly in my right ear.
"Audio check," Marcus’s voice crackled quietly in my ear. "One, two. You hear me, Cara?"
"Loud and clear," I murmured, pretending to adjust a hymnal in my lap.
Below me, the open mahogany casket stood empty at the front of the altar, flanked by elaborate arrangements of white lilies and dark red roses.
Sitting in the front row, directly beneath the pulpit, was Vanessa Moretti.
She was a vision of performative sorrow. She wore a tailored black wool dress with a veil of French netting that draped down to her cheekbones. Every few minutes, she dabbed a lace handkerchief against the corners of her eyes, her shoulders trembling with practiced precision. Beside her sat two older women who stroked her arms, murmuring consolations.
"Look at her," I whispered into the lapel. "She deserves an Oscar."
"Keep your eyes on the side aisle," Marcus commanded from the surveillance van parked two blocks away. "Dante is watching the perimeter feeds. Vance should be moving soon."
Sure enough, ten minutes into the eulogy delivered by a somber priest, a figure slipped quietly through the side vestry door.
Julian Vance.
He didn't take a seat in the pews. He lingered near the marble statue of St. Anthony, scanning the crowd with sharp, nervous eyes. He kept touching the pocket of his overcoat.
"Vance is at the south pillar," I reported.
"Copy that," Marcus replied. "Wait until the recessional. They'll have to make contact before they head to the legal reading."
The service dragged on for forty excruciating minutes. The priest spoke of Dante Moretti’s generous contributions to local charities, his business acumen, and his untimely passing in the prime of his life. Throughout the sermon, not a single tear fell from Vanessa’s eyes behind that veil. Her hands were still. Her posture was erect, tense, waiting.
When the priest finally delivered the benediction, the organ swelled into a mournful dirge. The congregation rose to their feet.
Vanessa stood, turning slowly to accept condolences from the dignitaries filing past. She nodded, offered limp handshakes, and played the fragile survivor to perfection. But as the crowd began to thin toward the grand double doors of the foyer, Vanessa quietly detached herself from her entourage, stepping toward the dimly lit alcove behind the baptismal font.
Vance was already waiting there.
I stood up from my perch in the loft, moving along the railing to get an unobstructed view looking straight down into the shadows of the alcove.
"They're meeting," I whispered. "By the font."
Vanessa stepped close to Vance. Her weeping facade vanished instantly. Her face was cold, her lips drawn in a hard, demanding line.
Vance pulled a folded document from his inside pocket, pressing it into her gloved hands.
"The inspector signed off," Vance muttered. His voice was faint, but the acoustics of the vaulted stone ceiling carried fragments straight up to my microphone. "...total failure... no criminal investigation."
Vanessa unfolded the paper slightly, glanced at the signature, and smiled—a sharp, triumphant smirk that made my skin crawl.
"And the board?" she asked.
"They're assembling at the Market Street office now," Vance replied. "Without Dante’s signature, the board appoints the primary beneficiary as interim chair. You sign the operational transfer at two-thirty. By four o'clock, the port contracts belong to our holding company."
"Good," Vanessa said, tucking the paper into her clutch. "What about the waitress from Bellini's? The manager said she ran out before her shift ended. Has anyone located her?"
My heart stopped.
Vance frowned. "Her apartment was empty. Her car wasn't there. But the police found tire tracks near Dante's skid marks on Route 9. We think she might have been rubbernecking, panicked, and skipped town."
"I don't care what you think, Julian," Vanessa hissed, her voice dripping with venom. "Find her. A girl like that has parents, friends, unpaid bills. Squeeze until she turns up. I didn't orchestrate an eight-hundred-foot fall just to be blackmailed by someone who smells like dish soap."
"Understood," Vance said, bowing his head slightly.
"Get to the boardroom," Vanessa ordered. "I'll arrive in ten minutes with the family counsel. Make sure the proxy votes are locked."
They parted ways—Vance slipping out the side door, Vanessa gliding gracefully toward the main exit where the limousines waited.
"Marcus," I whispered, my voice trembling with fury. "Did you get that?"
"Every single word," a different voice answered in my ear.
It wasn't Marcus.
May you like
It was Dante.
"Well done, Cara," Dante said, his tone chillingly calm. "The trap is set. Marcus is bringing you back to the van. It's time to attend a board meeting."
