Chapter 7
Rocco found Aldo Caruso’s grave empty.
Not publicly.
The cemetery still held a headstone.
Flowers.
Dates.
A family story.
But the private burial vault beneath it had never contained a body.
Rocco stood inside at dusk with Anthony Bell.
“Eight years.”
Anthony looked ashamed.
“I was at the funeral.”
“So was I.”
“Closed coffin.”
“Yes.”
“Fire.”
“Yes.”
Rocco laughed softly.
“Why do we keep allowing fire to certify dead men?”
Anthony said nothing.
Aldo had supposedly died in a warehouse explosion.
There had been remains.
Not identifiable beyond the jewelry and watch found nearby.
At the time, nobody questioned it.
Aldo was seventy.
Old.
Retiring.
Why would he fake death?
Now the answer seemed obvious.
Because dead men were rarely watched.
Rocco returned to the estate after dark.
Sybil sat in the dining room.
She looked smaller.
Rocco did not pity her enough to forget Tobin.
“You put your hands on my grandson.”
She looked up.
“Yes.”
“You will apologize to him.”
“I will.”
“He may not forgive you.”
“I know.”
“You do not touch him again.”
“I know.”
Rocco sat opposite her.
“Now tell me about Enzo’s token.”
“I never saw it.”
“Nolan?”
“He said Enzo took it.”
“Where?”
“He didn’t know.”
“What else did Nolan tell you when he called?”
Sybil hesitated.
Rocco saw it.
“Do not start protecting a ghost again.”
“He said one thing.”
“What?”
“If Rocco ever lets Brenna live in the old house, Aldo’s plan has started again.”
Rocco stared.
“Why Brenna?”
“I asked.”
“And?”
“Nolan refused.”
Rocco leaned back.
His daughter had chosen that house after marrying Gavin.
Or had she?
He remembered.
Gavin suggested it first.
Said Brenna always loved the garden.
Maybe true.
Maybe not.
“Did Gavin know that?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Rocco studied her.
“Why hate Brenna?”
Sybil stiffened.
“I don’t hate her.”
“You spent years poisoning your son’s marriage.”
“I was afraid of her father.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“She is Moretti.”
“So?”
“So every time Gavin looked at her, I saw Nolan bleeding.”
Rocco's voice became cold.
“Then you punished my daughter because she had my eyes.”
Sybil looked away.
“Yes.”
At least the answer was honest.
Rocco stood.
Sybil whispered:
“I loved Brenna once.”
He stopped.
“When Gavin first brought her home.”
Rocco looked back.
“She was kind to me.”
“And?”
“That made it worse.”
Rocco understood.
Kindness threatened hatred because it complicated the enemy.
Sybil continued.
“I needed Moretti to be what killed my husband.”
“So you could survive loving him.”
Tears filled her eyes.
“Yes.”
Rocco left.
Brenna was in the garden with Tobin.
The boy pushed a toy truck along the stone edge.
Rocco sat beside him.
Tobin looked up.
“Grandpa.”
“Yes.”
“Is Dad bad?”
Rocco did not answer quickly.
Children deserved truth without adult cruelty.
“Your dad did some bad things.”
“Is he still Dad?”
“Yes.”
Tobin thought.
“Grandma pushed me.”
“I know.”
“She said sorry.”
Rocco looked toward the house.
Sybil had already done it.
“What did you say?”
“I said no.”
Rocco almost smiled.
“You don’t have to forgive because someone asks.”
Tobin pushed the truck.
“Can I forgive tomorrow?”
“If you want.”
“Maybe Tuesday.”
“Tuesday is good.”
Brenna watched her father.
“You’re better with him than you were with me.”
Rocco looked at her.
“Yes.”
No denial.
She sat beside him.
“Why?”
“I was younger.”
“That’s an excuse.”
“Yes.”
He looked at Tobin.
“I thought providing safety made me a good father.”
“And now?”
“Now I think making children afraid to disappoint you is another kind of danger.”
Brenna looked surprised.
Rocco had spent decades becoming a man people feared.
It was difficult admitting fear inside his own house had cost him too.
She whispered:
“Did you know Gavin married me partly because of the house?”
“No.”
“You suspected him?”
“Yes.”
“And let me marry him.”
Rocco looked at her.
“I investigated him.”
“Of course you did.”
“I found nothing connected to Nolan.”
“Because Sybil was smarter.”
“Yes.”
“Would you have stopped me if you knew?”
Rocco thought.
Twenty years earlier?
Absolutely.
Now?
“I don’t know.”
Brenna nodded.
“Better answer.”
His phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
Rocco answered.
A man spoke.
Older.
Familiar enough to hurt.
“Brother.”
Rocco stood.
Brenna saw his face.
“Dad?”
Rocco whispered:
“Enzo.”
Silence on the line.
Then:
“You finally opened the first room.”
Rocco’s hand tightened.
“Where are you?”
“Not safe.”
“You’re alive.”
“Unfortunately.”
Rocco closed his eyes.
Twenty-six years collapsed.
“Come home.”
Enzo laughed softly.
“You still call it home.”
“Where?”
“Rocco.”
His brother’s voice changed.
“Aldo knows about Tobin.”
Rocco looked at his grandson.
“What does he want?”
“The third fox.”
“You have it.”
“Yes.”
“Then stay away from the child.”
“That won’t help.”
“Why?”
Enzo hesitated.
Then:
“Because the key was never meant for me.”
Rocco stared.
“Who?”
May you like
Enzo answered:
“Brenna.”
