Chapter 3 - The Dead Man in the Garage
Matteo remembered the man's ring.
That was what convinced me.
Not the name.
Children hear names.
They misunderstand conversations.
Memory after trauma is unreliable.
But Matteo remembered the ring.
“A black stone,” he whispered. “With a bird.”
I knew that ring.
A black onyx signet bearing the Rossi family crest.
My father had given one to each of his sons.
Mine had been lost years ago.
Luca had been buried wearing his.
Or so I had been told.
I stood slowly.
“When did you see him?”
Matteo stared at the floor.
“Before Mom died.”
“How long before?”
He shrugged.
“A few sleeps.”
Clara touched my arm.
“Don't push him too hard.”
I looked at her hand until she removed it.
Then I softened my voice.
“Matteo, did your mother see him?”
He nodded.
“They fought.”
“With words?”
Another nod.
“What did he say?”
Matteo closed his eyes.
“He said you stole everything.”
The words hit me harder than they should have.
Because they sounded exactly like Luca.
My brother and I had grown up under a father who believed love was weakness and competition was education.
Luca was younger by three years.
He was charming where I was severe.
Reckless where I was cautious.
People loved him instantly.
Our father didn't.
When the old man died, control of the Rossi organization passed to me.
Luca believed it should have been divided.
He responded by stealing from our own accounts and negotiating secretly with a rival syndicate.
Eight years ago, his car went off a bridge near Providence.
The vehicle burned.
A body was recovered.
Dental records confirmed it was him.
I never saw the face.
At the time, I was relieved.
That realization made me sick now.
Dominic left the room without permission.
I followed him into the hallway.
“Where are you going?”
“To verify the burial.”
“You think the coffin is empty?”
“I think we've believed too many things because paperwork told us to.”
Clara remained with Matteo while Dominic and I went downstairs.
By midnight, we had men working quietly.
No police.
No outsiders.
At one forty-seven in the morning, Dominic received a call.
He listened for twenty seconds.
Then hung up.
“Well?”
“The cemetery records were altered six years ago.”
“Meaning?”
“Luca's coffin was transferred.”
“To where?”
“Nobody knows.”
I stared at him.
“How does a coffin disappear?”
“With signatures.”
“Whose?”
Dominic looked exhausted.
“Gabriel Shaw.”
My attorney.
Another name from the small circle that knew every weakness I possessed.
I poured two fingers of bourbon and didn't drink it.
“Bring Gabriel in tomorrow morning.”
Dominic remained silent.
“What?”
“He left Boston tonight.”
My eyes lifted.
“When?”
“Three hours ago.”
“Destination?”
“Private jet filed for Montreal.”
“Filed?”
“He changed course after takeoff.”
“To where?”
“We don't know.”
I set the glass down.
Running was an answer.
Not proof.
But an answer.
At eight the next morning, Clara found me in the breakfast room.
“You look terrible.”
“Thank you.”
“You're welcome.”
She poured coffee.
The normality of the gesture irritated me.
“Why aren't you afraid?”
“Of what?”
“Everything.”
She considered the question.
“I spent two years being afraid after Daniel died.”
“And?”
“It didn't bring him back.”
I looked at her.
For the first time, she looked different to me.
Not suspicious.
Not brave.
Just tired.
There is a specific kind of exhaustion carried by people who have spent too long waiting for bad news.
I recognized it because I wore the same thing.
“Why did you disappear for two years?” I asked.
Her expression closed.
“That employment gap.”
“I know what you mean.”
“Where were you?”
“Taking care of my mother.”
“She's sick?”
“Was.”
A pause.
“She died four months ago.”
I didn't know what to say.
I had always been excellent at condolences when they involved business associates.
Sorry for your loss.
Your father was respected.
Your brother was loyal.
Words delivered in dark suits beside graves.
With Clara, the phrases felt cheap.
So I said nothing.
She seemed to appreciate that.
After breakfast, we took Matteo to the therapy room.
The room overlooked the sea.
Before the explosion, it had been a guest conservatory.
Afterward, I had transformed it into a private rehabilitation center filled with equipment my son hated.
Clara rolled a padded bench beside him.
“We're trying something different.”
Matteo eyed her suspiciously.
“What?”
He had spoken more in twenty-four hours than in the previous six months.
Every word felt like stolen treasure.
Clara held up a lightweight basketball.
Matteo frowned.
“No.”
“Excellent argument.”
“No.”
“Still not convincing.”
She positioned a low hoop six feet away.
“You get five shots.”
“I can't.”
“You have arms.”
“My chair moves.”
“Then lock your brakes.”
He glared.
I watched from the doorway.
“You're annoying,” he said.
Clara smiled.
“That's the nicest thing anyone's said to me all week.”
He threw the ball.
Missed by three feet.
Clara retrieved it.
Second attempt.
Missed.
Third.
Hit the rim.
On the fifth shot, the ball dropped through.
For one second, Matteo looked shocked.
Then he smiled.
I had forgotten what my son's smile looked like.
Something burned behind my eyes.
I left before either of them noticed.
Dominic found me in the hallway.
“We found something.”
His tone erased the warmth immediately.
He handed me a tablet.
A surveillance photograph showed a silver sedan entering the estate service road eighteen months ago.
The driver was obscured.
The passenger wasn't.
My brother.
Older.
Thinner.
But unquestionably Luca.
“He was here,” I whispered.
Dominic nodded.
“Security records were deleted.”
“By whom?”
“A supervisor named Marcus Vane.”
I knew Marcus.
Former military.
Worked estate security for five years.
“He quit after Elena died.”
“No,” Dominic said. “He disappeared.”
I stared at him.
Then a memory returned.
The morning of the bombing, Marcus had personally checked the SUV.
I turned toward Matteo's therapy room.
“Lock the estate down.”
Dominic's hand went to his phone.
“No one leaves?”
“No one.”
I walked toward the control room.
“Vincent.”
I stopped.
“What?”
Dominic's face had changed.
“There is one problem.”
“What?”
He held out another photograph.
It had been taken less than ten minutes earlier at the northern gate.
A delivery van.
The driver had presented valid security credentials.
And sitting in the passenger seat was Marcus Vane.
The man who had disappeared fourteen months ago.
May you like
The man who had checked my vehicle on the morning my wife died.
He was already inside my estate.
