Chapter 2 - The Funeral for a Living Man
Mara spun around.
No one was there.
Only a teenage boy pushing a cart of returned books.
Her heart continued pounding anyway.
She left the library through a side exit, crossed two streets, changed direction twice, and didn't stop until she reached a crowded bus station.
For the rest of the day she argued with herself.
Do not go.
The warning note should have been enough.
The strange men by the river should have been enough.
The fact that Vincent Caruso had apparently chosen to let the world believe he had drowned should have been enough.
But Mara had spent almost a year surviving by listening to instincts other people dismissed.
Something had happened in that river.
Something that had reached her the second she jumped into the water.
And someone had deliberately invited her to the funeral.
At 1:43 the following afternoon, Mara stood across from St. Adrian's Chapel wearing the cleanest clothes she owned.
They weren't clean.
Her olive jacket had dried stiff from river water.
Her boots were scratched.
Her backpack had one broken zipper.
Men in black suits arrived in polished sedans.
Women in dark dresses stepped out under umbrellas.
No reporters were allowed beyond the barricade.
Mara nearly turned around.
Then she saw the photograph beside the chapel entrance.
Vincent.
The same face she had seen inches from hers on the riverbank.
Alive.
Breathing.
Warning her.
Now framed in black ribbon.
Mara crossed the street.
A security man at the door blocked her.
“Private service.”
“I knew him.”
His eyes traveled over her clothing.
“No, you didn't.”
“I was there when his car went into the river.”
That changed everything.
The guard's hand moved subtly toward his jacket.
Before he could speak, an older woman appeared behind him.
“Let her in.”
She was perhaps sixty-five.
Silver hair.
Black tailored coat.
No tears.
Everyone near her seemed to adjust their posture.
The guard stepped aside.
The woman studied Mara.
“You're Mara Ellis.”
It wasn't a question.
Mara's throat tightened.
“Yes.”
“My name is Teresa Caruso.”
“His mother?”
A small flicker crossed Teresa's face.
“Yes.”
Mara didn't know what to say.
I'm sorry seemed absurd when she knew Teresa's son wasn't dead.
So she said nothing.
Teresa turned toward the chapel.
“Walk with me.”
They passed rows of mourners.
Some watched Mara.
Others pretended not to.
At the front sat a closed polished coffin covered by white lilies.
Mara stared.
Teresa noticed.
“You're wondering what's inside.”
Mara looked at her.
“A body?”
“No.”
Mara stopped walking.
Teresa continued calmly.
“Sandbags.”
Mara stared at her.
“You know.”
“I know my son is alive.”
“Then why—”
“Not here.”
Teresa guided her into a side room.
The door closed.
Mara immediately stepped away.
“Why invite me?”
“I didn't.”
Mara pulled out the funeral card.
Teresa examined the handwriting.
Her expression changed.
“Where did you get this?”
“At the library.”
“From whom?”
“I don't know.”
Teresa walked to the window.
For the first time, tension showed in her shoulders.
“You shouldn't have come.”
“That makes two people who've told me that.”
“My son?”
“Yes.”
Teresa turned.
“Vincent spoke to you?”
“On the riverbank.”
“What did he say?”
“That somebody wanted him dead.”
Teresa's eyes sharpened.
“Anything else?”
“He told me not to tell anyone I saw him alive.”
A sound came from the hallway.
Teresa immediately opened the door.
Two men passed.
She waited until they were gone.
Then she whispered, “Listen carefully. Vincent's crash was not an accident.”
“I figured that out.”
“No. You don't understand.”
“Then explain it.”
Teresa hesitated.
“My son has enemies.”
“Mafia enemies?”
Teresa gave her a cold look.
“Newspapers like simple words.”
“Is it true?”
“My family has done things I am not proud of.”
That was not a denial.
Teresa continued.
“Vincent spent the last three years trying to move legitimate businesses away from people who preferred the old way.”
“What old way?”
“Extortion. Smuggling. Bribes.”
Mara looked toward the chapel.
“And someone tried to kill him for it.”
“Yes.”
“So he faked his death.”
“That was not the original plan.”
“What was?”
Teresa didn't answer.
The chapel organ began.
The service was starting.
Teresa touched Mara's arm.
“You need to sit in the back. Do not speak to anyone.”
“Why?”
“Because the person responsible for Vincent's crash is likely in this building.”
Mara's skin went cold.
“Then why hold a funeral?”
Teresa met her eyes.
“Because sometimes the only way to make a traitor relax is to let him believe he succeeded.”
Mara returned to the chapel.
She sat in the last row.
Teresa took her place near the coffin.
A priest began speaking.
Vincent's photograph stood beside candles.
Mara scanned the room.
Everyone looked dangerous now.
A broad man with a shaved head.
A thin man wearing gold glasses.
A woman who never removed her gloves.
A younger man sitting beside Teresa who bore enough resemblance to Vincent to be family.
Then Mara saw someone she recognized.
The man in the gray coat.
He stood near the side wall.
He had been outside the library.
He saw Mara.
No reaction.
Mara lowered her eyes.
The priest continued.
“Vincent Caruso was a son, a brother, a friend—”
The chapel doors opened.
Every head turned.
Footsteps sounded.
Slow.
Measured.
A man walked down the center aisle.
Black tailored suit.
White shirt.
Dark hair.
The scar beside his eyebrow.
Mara stopped breathing.
Vincent Caruso walked into his own funeral.
Gasps rippled through the room.
Someone dropped a program.
Teresa remained seated.
Vincent's younger relative stood abruptly.
“What the hell—”
Vincent ignored him.
His eyes found Mara immediately.
For one second, something almost like amusement touched his face.
Then vanished.
He stopped beside the coffin.
“My apologies,” he said. “Traffic.”
No one laughed.
Vincent placed one hand on the polished wood.
“I wanted to see who came to mourn me.”
Silence.
“And more importantly, who came to make sure I was dead.”
The room changed.
Mara felt it.
People shifted.
Hands disappeared into jackets.
Teresa rose.
Vincent looked around.
“Sit down.”
They did.
Except one man.
Shaved head.
He took a step toward a side door.
Vincent's voice hardened.
“Marco.”
The man stopped.
“Going somewhere?”
“No.”
“Then stay.”
Mara's pulse hammered.
This wasn't a funeral.
It was a trap.
Vincent spoke for less than five minutes.
He thanked everyone for attending his “temporary burial.”
He said the crash had given him time to consider loyalty.
Then he announced that Caruso Holdings would undergo immediate internal restructuring.
A few faces hardened.
Vincent saw all of them.
Finally he looked toward Mara.
“And there is one person here who was never supposed to become involved.”
Every eye turned.
Mara wanted to disappear.
Vincent walked toward her.
He stopped three feet away.
“This woman saved my life.”
Whispers spread.
Mara looked at him.
“You told me not to say anything.”
“I changed the rules.”
“That seems to happen a lot around you.”
Several people stared at her in disbelief.
Vincent almost smiled.
Then the side window shattered.
Someone screamed.
Vincent moved instantly.
He grabbed Mara and pulled her behind a marble column.
A gunshot cracked through the chapel.
Chaos erupted.
Security rushed toward the doors.
Teresa ducked.
Mourners scattered.
Vincent covered Mara with his body.
Another shot.
Then silence.
“Stay down,” he said.
Mara pushed against him.
“Who is shooting?”
“The person who just learned I wasn't dead.”
Vincent's men secured the chapel.
The shooter had vanished.
A bullet had struck the coffin.
White lilies lay across the floor.
Vincent stood slowly.
His jaw tightened.
Then a guard approached.
“We found something.”
He handed Vincent a small object.
A silver ring.
Mara recognized it.
V.M.C.
Vincent looked at her.
“Where did this come from?”
The guard answered.
“Found beside the broken window.”
Mara shook her head.
“That was on the sidewalk the night of the crash.”
Vincent's face went cold.
“Someone took it.”
Teresa approached.
“Why leave it here?”
Vincent turned the ring over.
Inside, beneath the initials, a new mark had been scratched into the metal.
A number.
Vincent stared at it.
Teresa went pale.
Mara noticed.
“What does 317 mean?”
Nobody answered.
Then Vincent's younger relative stepped forward.
“Vincent.”
Vincent looked up.
The man held out his phone.
“There was another message.”
Vincent read it.
His expression changed.
He handed the phone to Mara.
One sentence appeared on the screen.
ROOM 317. BRING THE WOMAN WHO PULLED YOU OUT.
Mara looked toward the chapel doors.
May you like
They were slowly opening again.
Someone stood on the other side.
