Chapter 4
For years, my father’s murder had been a closed wound.
Not healed.
Closed.
Patrick Castellano was shot outside our south warehouse eighteen years ago.
The official story was simple.
An O’Donnell gunman.
A family feud.
Old blood demanding new blood.
The war that followed destroyed half the South Side and buried more men than anyone admitted.
I was twenty-nine when I took over.
Francesca was twenty-four.
Dominic was a child.
Maeve would have been eight.
Too young to hold a gun.
Old enough to remember screams.
Special Agent Daniel Pierce stood in my club with his badge raised and my father’s name in his mouth.
Every staff member stared.
Francesca looked almost pleased.
Dominic looked saved.
Maeve looked shattered.
I stepped between her and the agent.
“What does Maeve have to do with my father?”
Pierce’s eyes were calm.
“Mr. Castellano, I need to ask her questions.”
“You can ask them with her attorney present.”
Maeve whispered, “I don’t have one.”
“You do now,” I said.
Francesca laughed.
“You are unbelievable.”
I ignored her and looked at one of the family lawyers she brought.
“Call Elena Marquez.”
The lawyer blinked.
“She’s a federal defense attorney.”
“She’s the best.”
Francesca snapped, “You are hiring counsel for an O’Donnell?”
I turned to her.
“I’m hiring counsel for a woman your son abused in my club.”
Pierce watched me carefully.
“I’m not here to arrest her.”
“Then you can wait.”
Maeve touched my sleeve lightly.
The contact was barely there.
But everyone saw it.
Francesca’s eyes sharpened.
“Careful, Rocco. Staff girls with tragic stories are expensive.”
Maeve pulled her hand back like she had touched fire.
I faced my sister.
“You’re done speaking to her.”
“You don’t command me.”
“In this building, I do.”
Pierce cleared his throat.
“Mr. Castellano, this concerns new evidence.”
My chest tightened.
“What evidence?”
“A recording delivered anonymously to our office this morning.”
Santino stepped closer.
“What recording?”
Pierce looked at Maeve.
“Her mother.”
Maeve’s knees weakened.
I caught her elbow before she fell.
“My mother is dead,” she whispered.
“Yes,” Pierce said gently. “The recording was made before she died.”
Maeve shook her head.
“No.”
Francesca looked irritated now, which meant she had not expected that.
Good.
Dominic looked confused.
Better.
Elena Marquez arrived thirty-five minutes later.
Short black hair.
Red coat.
Eyes sharp enough to slice rope.
She listened to the situation without blinking.
Then she looked at Maeve.
“Do you consent to speak with Agent Pierce with me present?”
Maeve looked at me.
I stepped back.
Her choice.
Not mine.
She swallowed.
“Yes.”
We moved into the private cigar room because it had no windows and better recording equipment.
Maeve sat at the table with Elena beside her.
I stood near the door.
Pierce placed a small recorder on the table.
“This came from an evidence dump tied to a corruption case involving Judge Halverson.”
The VIP who had grabbed Maeve’s wrist.
My eyes narrowed.
“Halverson?”
Pierce nodded.
“He was once an assistant prosecutor. He helped close the Patrick Castellano murder investigation.”
I felt the old wound open.
Pierce pressed play.
Static.
Then a woman’s voice.
Weak.
Breathless.
Irish accent softened by years in America.
Maeve covered her mouth.
“Mama,” she whispered.
The recording continued.
“If anyone finds this, my name is Nora O’Donnell. My husband did not kill Patrick Castellano. Neither did my brother. The gun came from inside Castellano’s own house.”
Francesca, watching from the doorway despite being told to leave, went rigid.
My heart stopped.
Nora’s voice shook.
“Patrick found out someone was stealing from the family charity accounts. He was going to remove her from the trust.”
Her.
One word.
The room turned cold.
Maeve sobbed silently.
Nora continued.
“She came to our house after he died. She said if we took the blame quietly, she would let my children live. I believed her because Maeve was only eight and Finn was five. But then the fires started.”
My hands curled into fists.
The fires.
O’Donnell homes burned one by one after my father died.
We called it retaliation.
Maybe it had been cleanup.
Nora’s voice broke.
“If my daughter lives, tell her I’m sorry. Tell her I hid the ledger in the only place a Castellano would never search.”
The recording crackled.
Then one final sentence.
“Francesca knows where Patrick’s real will is.”
The room exploded.
Francesca shouted, “That is a lie!”
Maeve flinched.
I turned slowly.
My sister’s face had gone pale beneath her makeup.
Pierce paused the recording.
“Mrs. DeLuca, I suggest you stop talking.”
Francesca looked at me.
“Rocco, you cannot believe this.”
I could not speak.
My father.
His murder.
The war.
The bodies.
The years of hatred.
All of it tilted toward my sister.
A woman who had just been caught dismissing a sick child.
A woman whose son had forged power in my club.
A woman who smiled when Maeve’s past was exposed.
I walked toward Francesca.
Aldo stepped in front of her.
“Rocco, wait.”
I looked at him.
He moved aside.
Smart man.
Francesca lifted her chin.
“You know me.”
“I thought I did.”
“That woman’s mother was an O’Donnell.”
“And you are my sister.”
“Yes,” she snapped. “Your sister. Blood.”
Maeve stood suddenly.
“My family was blood too.”
Francesca’s eyes cut to her.
“Your family should have stayed gone.”
The room went dead silent.
Francesca realized too late.
Elena’s pen stopped moving.
Pierce’s eyes sharpened.
I felt my heartbeat once.
Twice.
Then I said, “Where is my father’s will?”
Francesca laughed, but it shook.
“You’re insane.”
“Where is it?”
“I don’t know.”
Pierce stepped forward.
“We can obtain warrants.”
Francesca turned on him.
“For an eighteen-year-old fantasy?”
He held up the recorder.
“For a murder conspiracy.”
Dominic stumbled into the doorway.
“Mama?”
His voice was small.
Francesca looked at him, and for one second, I saw fear.
Not for him.
Of him.
Because Dominic had spent years carrying himself like he owned my club.
Maybe Francesca had raised him to believe he would.
Maybe my father’s real will explained why.
Maeve whispered, “The only place a Castellano would never search.”
I turned to her.
“What does that mean?”
She wiped her face.
“My mother used to say Castellanos never kneel.”
My chest tightened.
Santino muttered, “The chapel.”
Everyone looked at him.
He nodded toward the back of the club.
My father had built a small chapel behind the wine cellar for my mother.
After she died, no one used it.
No Castellano man knelt there.
Not my father.
Not me.
Not Dominic.
Francesca’s face drained.
I saw it.
So did Pierce.
So did Maeve.
I walked out without another word.
Downstairs, past the wine cellar, the old chapel door groaned open.
Dust floated in the air.
A marble statue of the Madonna stood at the front.
Below her feet was a kneeler.
Santino and I lifted it.
Underneath, hidden behind loose stone, was a metal box.
Inside lay two things.
A bloodstained ledger.
And my father’s will.
I opened the first page.
May you like
My father’s handwriting stared back at me.
If I die before I can speak, do not trust Francesca.
