Chapter 7 - The Kidnappers Demanded the Bride—But Khloe Discovered the Priest Had Been Hiding a Confession for Twenty-Four Years
Father Michael had lied to Enzo for most of his life.
Khloe discovered that before midnight.
Not because the priest confessed.
Because she listened.
The livestream carried almost no useful sound.
Almost.
Frankie enhanced it.
Air conditioning.
Metal vibration.
A distant horn.
Every eleven minutes, a voice announced something over an intercom.
Muffled.
Khloe listened again.
“What language?” Enzo asked.
“English.”
“Then why can't I understand it?”
“Because you're impatient.”
“Useful.”
She replayed the announcement.
Again.
Again.
Then:
“It's not an intercom.”
“What?”
“It's a radio.”
She isolated three words.
Calumet. Southbound. Clearance.
Frankie looked up.
“Calumet Harbor.”
Enzo was already standing.
Khloe pointed.
“Sit.”
He stared.
“You're becoming aggressive.”
“You're recovering.”
“From what?”
“Your personality.”
Gabriella laughed.
Enzo did not.
But he sat.
The signal led them to an abandoned customs facility near the river.
Federal agents were contacted.
Enzo insisted.
That surprised Gabriella.
“You're calling them?”
“Yes.”
“Without knowing who Vale controls?”
“No.”
Enzo looked at her.
“Through one prosecutor Khloe trusts.”
Khloe had worked with Assistant U.S. Attorney Rachel Kim for two years.
Rachel arrived without entourage.
She reviewed the evidence.
“This could compromise federal cases going back decades.”
“Can you help Michael?” Khloe asked.
“If we locate him.”
“We have.”
Rachel looked at the feed.
“Then nobody moves until tactical teams—”
The video changed.
Father Michael lifted his head.
He looked directly toward the camera.
Then spoke.
Not English.
Sicilian.
Khloe leaned closer.
“What is he saying?” Enzo asked.
She translated.
“Don't bring the watch.”
Michael coughed.
“Antonio knew.”
Another sentence.
Khloe froze.
“What?” Enzo demanded.
“He says…”
She looked at him.
“He says, ‘I gave the poison to your father.’”
Nobody moved.
Enzo's chair scraped backward.
Khloe stood.
“Enzo.”
“He killed him.”
“We don't know.”
“He just said—”
“He said he gave him poison. Not that he knew what it was.”
Enzo's face hardened.
“That's generous.”
“It's accurate.”
The livestream went black.
Enzo turned away.
Khloe knew that posture now.
He was retreating inward.
Old instincts building walls.
She didn't touch him.
“Talk.”
“Not now.”
“Fine.”
He looked surprised.
Khloe continued.
“But when you decide to do something stupid, tell me first.”
His mouth twitched.
Barely.
At 2:10 a.m., tactical teams entered the customs facility.
Empty.
Chair.
Blood.
Camera.
No priest.
A message painted on the wall:
CONFESSION REQUIRES A WITNESS.
Gabriella stared.
“They moved him.”
Khloe examined the chair.
Father Michael's blood.
One shoe.
A rosary.
Then she noticed something carved beneath the armrest.
Letters.
S A C R I S T Y
Sacristy.
Enzo understood.
“His church.”
St. Dominic's stood twelve miles away.
They arrived before federal teams because Enzo ignored three traffic laws and one red light.
Khloe objected to all four.
The church was dark.
Front doors unlocked.
Father Michael sat inside the confessional.
Alive.
Alone.
Enzo approached.
The priest looked older than he had the day before.
“I'm sorry.”
Enzo stopped.
“For which part?”
Michael closed his eyes.
“All of it.”
Khloe remained several feet away.
Rachel and Frankie searched the church.
Gabriella stayed near the entrance.
Michael spoke.
“Antonio came to me the night before he died.”
Enzo said nothing.
“He knew Anthony was moving weapons. He knew Belladonna existed.”
“Did you poison him?”
Michael looked at his hands.
“Anthony gave me medicine.”
Enzo's jaw tightened.
“He told me Antonio had become dependent on pills. Said the family wanted it handled quietly.”
“You believed him?”
“I wanted to.”
“Why?”
“Because I was weak.”
Enzo laughed bitterly.
Michael continued.
“I put the powder in Antonio's whiskey.”
Khloe watched Enzo.
His face emptied.
“He died twelve hours later.”
“Yes.”
“And you stood at his funeral.”
“Yes.”
“You put your hand on my shoulder.”
Michael cried.
“Yes.”
Enzo moved.
Khloe stepped between them.
Not dramatically.
Simply enough.
Enzo stopped.
His eyes met hers.
She didn't tell him what to do.
That was important.
Michael whispered:
“I've waited twenty-four years for you to kill me.”
Enzo looked past Khloe.
“Then you've wasted a lot of time.”
Michael stared.
Enzo stepped back.
“Who is the fifth?”
Michael wiped his face.
“I don't know.”
“Lie.”
“I never knew his name.”
“Then what do you know?”
Michael looked toward Khloe.
“The fifth member was called the Widow.”
Sofia, who had just entered behind Rachel, froze.
Khloe saw it.
“Mom?”
Sofia whispered:
“No.”
Enzo turned.
“What?”
Sofia sat in the nearest pew.
“The Widow.”
“You know who that is?”
“I know who people thought it was.”
“Who?”
Sofia looked at Khloe.
“My mother.”
Khloe's grandmother.
Isabella Caruso.
Officially dead for thirty years.
Except Sofia now admitted nobody had ever seen her body.
And the woman who might have orchestrated Antonio's murder—
May you like
might also be Khloe's grandmother.
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