Chapter 8 - A Funeral for the Living
The Rossi family cemetery occupied a wooded hillside outside Chicago, hidden behind iron gates and guarded by men who had spent their lives obeying orders without asking questions.
Bee arrived at 2:00 a.m. with Dominic beside her.
Neither had spoken during the drive.
She was still furious with him, but anger had become a luxury they couldn't afford. If her father was telling the truth, someone had arranged Dominic's death and intended to use Bee to complete the conspiracy.
At the cemetery entrance, Dominic handed her a second pistol.
"Stay behind me."
"No."
"Bee."
"You hired me because I can see what other people miss. If you want a bodyguard, hire one."
For the first time that night, a faint smile touched his mouth.
"That's the woman I know."
They entered through a maintenance gate and followed the gravel path toward the oldest mausoleum. Bee noticed fresh tire tracks near a row of marble graves.
Someone had arrived before them.
Inside the mausoleum, candles flickered beside an open coffin.
Dominic approached it slowly.
The name carved into the marble lid read MATTEO ROSSI.
Bee felt her skin prickle.
"Why would they leave this open?"
Dominic looked inside.
The coffin was empty.
Beneath the velvet lining lay a small envelope addressed to him.
He opened it.
Inside was a single photograph of Dominic's father, Lorenzo's father, and Michael Gallagher standing together outside a warehouse. Someone had drawn a black circle around Dominic's father.
On the reverse, a message had been written in red ink.
THE FIRST ROSSI WAS NEVER THE MONSTER. HIS HEIR BECAME ONE.
Dominic's jaw tightened.
Bee examined the photograph under the candlelight. Behind the three men stood a fourth figure, partially obscured by a vehicle.
She recognized the silver serpent ring.
"Matteo was there," she whispered.
Dominic stared at the image.
"That photograph was taken the night he supposedly died."
A click sounded behind them.
The mausoleum doors slammed shut.
Gas began hissing through the ventilation grates.
Dominic grabbed Bee's hand and pulled her toward a narrow service passage. They stumbled down stone steps as the air thickened, coughing while they searched for an exit.
At the bottom, Bee found a concealed panel.
She forced it open with the heel of her shoe.
Beyond it was a small underground chamber containing a desk, a lamp, and a wall covered with photographs.
Every photograph showed Bee.
At ten years old.
At sixteen.
At twenty-two.
At the Rossi headquarters.
At the airport.
And one taken only three days earlier, showing her asleep in the passenger seat of Dominic's car.
Dominic stared at the wall.
"I never ordered these."
Bee moved toward the desk.
A red folder lay beneath a photograph of her father.
May you like
On its cover were three words.
THE REAL HEIR.
