Chapter 4 - THE GHOST'S FUNERAL
The rain over Brooklyn was heavy, sweeping across the stone angels and granite mausoleums of Green-Wood Cemetery like a shroud.
The brownstone at 412 Maple Street stood directly across from the gothic iron gates of the cemetery. It was a three-story building with dark green shutters and a narrow wrought-iron balcony overlooking the street.
It was 7:15 a.m.
Inside the grand parlor of the brownstone, four men sat around a polished mahogany table.
At the head of the table sat Matteo Falcone, wearing a dark grey wool suit, sipping espresso from a delicate porcelain cup. Beside him stood a tall, strikingly beautiful woman with dark hair pinned up in an elegant French twist. She wore a burgundy silk gown—the exact duplicate of mine.
On the table between them rested fifty stacks of hundred-dollar bills, a bottle of vintage champagne, and a stack of crisp, gold-embossed cardstock papers.
Funeral programs.
"The news hasn't reported his death yet," Matteo growled, setting his espresso cup down with a sharp clatter. "Why hasn't the media picked it up? It's been three days since Il Cielo!"
"Patience, Matteo," Victorine Marceau replied, her French accent smooth as velvet as she poured champagne into two glasses. "The hospital is locked down. Moretti’s security team is hiding the body to buy time while they organize their defense. But the poison was aconitine. No one survives three milligrams of pure aconitine. He is dead."
"And the girl?" Matteo asked, his eyes narrowing. "The maid’s child who ran into the dining room?"
"Dead," Victorine smiled coldly. "My men disposed of the cook, Thomas, and the child vanished into the river with him. There are no witnesses, Matteo. By noon today, you will call an emergency meeting of the commission. You will announce Alessandro’s death. You will present the video evidence showing his fiancée buying the poison, and you will take control of the harbors."
Matteo let out a long, satisfied breath, picking up his champagne glass. "To the death of the King."
"To the death of the King," Victorine echoed, raising her glass.
BOOM!
The heavy oak front doors of the brownstone did not just open; they were blown off their hinges by a controlled breaching charge.
Glass rained down into the hallway. The shockwave rattled the chandelier overhead, sending crystal droplets crashing onto the mahogany table.
Before the smoke could clear, eight tactical operatives in matte-black gear poured into the parlor, their submachine guns equipped with tactical lights that blinded the men inside.
"DON'T MOVE! WEAPONS ON THE FLOOR!" Marco’s voice roared through the smoke.
Matteo’s bodyguards reached for their shoulder holsters, but before their hands could touch leather, three quick, silenced shots echoed through the room. The two guards crumpled to the floor, motionless.
Matteo dropped his champagne glass. The crystal shattered on the hardwood floor, spilling sparkling wine across his shoes.
Victorine backed up against the fireplace, her face turning pale as snow as she stared through the dissipating smoke.
Through the broken doorway stepped a man.
He wore a dark charcoal overcoat, a white shirt, and a black silk tie. He walked with slow, heavy, deliberate steps, his boots crushing the shattered glass beneath his soles.
Alessandro Moretti.
Beside him walked a woman in a black wool coat—me.
Matteo fell back against his chair, his eyes bulging out of his head, his chest heaving in absolute, paralyzing terror. He looked like a man staring at a ghost rising directly out of hell.
"A... Alessandro?" Matteo stammered, his voice squeaking like a dying animal. "You... you're... you're alive?"
"You look disappointed, Matteo," Alessandro said softly. His voice carried no anger, no theatrical fury—only the cold, final weight of absolute judgment.
Alessandro walked over to the mahogany table. He picked up one of the gold-embossed funeral programs, turning it over in his hand.
"In loving memory of Alessandro Moretti," Alessandro read aloud, his voice echoing in the ruined parlor. "Service at St. Patrick's. You even chose the hymns, Matteo? I see you chose Ave Maria. How thoughtful."
"Alessandro—listen to me!" Matteo cried, dropping to his knees, his hands held up in desperate pleading. "It wasn't me! It was the woman! She forced me! She threatened my family! She brought the French money—"
BANG!
A single shot cut through the room.
Matteo collapsed onto the floor, quiet at last.
Alessandro lowered his weapon, his face unreadable as he turned his dark gaze toward Victorine Marceau.
Victorine did not drop to her knees. She stood straight against the fireplace, her chin lifted, her dark eyes burning with pure, unadulterated venom.
"You killed my father," Victorine spat, her French accent sharp and biting. "You took everything we owned! You destroyed our name!"
"Your father destroyed himself when he sold military grade weapons to men who used them against children in Marseilles," Alessandro replied coldly. "I didn't destroy his name, Victorine. I simply enforced the law of the sea."
Alessandro stepped aside, looking at me.
"She is yours, Julianna," Alessandro murmured gently. "She tried to put you in a casket. You decide her fate."
I walked forward, stopping three feet from the woman who had worn my face, copied my dress, and tried to frame me for murder. I looked at the duplicate burgundy silk gown she wore, then looked into her cold, hateful eyes.
"You thought you were clever," I said, my voice steady and strong. "You thought you could use a innocent child, a greedy underboss, and a poison to tear down a life. But you forgot one thing."
"And what is that?" Victorine sneered.
"You forgot that Alessandro doesn't love an empire," I said softly. "He loves his family. And you can't defeat a man who has something real to fight for."
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I turned to Marco. "Hand her over to the federal authorities. The wire fraud, the forged seals, the conspiracy to commit murder... let her spend the rest of her life in a federal cell thinking about the funeral she failed to host."
Victorine’s composure finally shattered. She screamed in rage as Marco’s men clamped heavy steel handcuffs onto her wrists and dragged her out into the rain.
