Chapter 12 - The Woman in Camila’s GraveI thought surviving the Bellandis would bring quiet.
Not peace. I was not naive enough for that.
But quiet, at least.
A few weeks where Leo could sleep without a guard outside every door. A few mornings where Victor did not wake before dawn to read threat reports with coffee gone cold beside his hand. A little time for Nathan to regain color in his face, for my stitches to become scars, for the Romano estate to feel less like a battlefield wearing chandeliers.
For three days, we almost had it.
Then the cemetery called.
Victor took the call in his office while I helped Leo with a puzzle on the rug. Nathan sat in the armchair near the window, pretending not to be exhausted after walking from the guest suite without help.
I watched Victor’s face as he listened.
The change was small.
A tightening around his mouth.
A stillness in his shoulders.
But I knew his weather now.
Something terrible had arrived.
He ended the call.
“Leo,” he said, voice gentle in a way that made fear move through me. “Go with Nathan to the kitchen.”
Leo looked up. “Why?”
“Because I need to talk to Clara.”
Leo’s eyes narrowed. He was only six, but trauma had sharpened him. “Is it bad?”
Victor crossed the room and crouched. “Yes.”
I loved him a little for not lying.
Leo swallowed. “Is someone dead?”
Victor paused.
Then said, “Someone already was.”
That answer made no sense to Leo.
It made too much sense to me.
Nathan stood carefully. “Come on, buddy. I’ll teach you how to steal cookies from a mafia kitchen.”
Leo whispered, “You’re not supposed to say mafia.”
Nathan looked at Victor. “Sorry. Organized-crime-adjacent kitchen.”
Despite everything, Victor almost smiled.
When they left, the office felt colder.
“What happened?” I asked.
Victor turned toward the window.
“Camila’s grave was disturbed last night.”
My stomach dropped.
“What do you mean disturbed?”
“The vault was opened.”
I stood too fast and pain pulled through my back. “By who?”
“Unknown.”
“Was anything taken?”
Victor looked at me then.
“No,” he said. “Something was left.”
The cemetery sat on a hill outside the city, old money carved into marble angels and family mausoleums. Camila Romano’s grave rested beneath a white stone arch, surrounded by iron fencing and winter roses Victor had replaced every week for two years.
I had never been there before.
It felt wrong to arrive as his wife.
It felt worse to arrive because someone had opened her grave.
The police were not there. Victor’s men were. Quiet, controlled, pale around the eyes. Marco stood near the open vault with a priest who looked like he regretted every life choice that had brought him within fifty feet of the Romano family.
The coffin had been pulled out.
Not opened fully.
Just enough.
I stopped beside Victor.
He did not look at me.
“There was no body,” he said.
The world went silent.
I stared at him. “What?”
“No remains. No jewelry. No bone fragments. Nothing.”
“But the funeral—”
“I identified a body,” he said. “Burned beyond recognition. The ring was hers. Dental records confirmed.”
His voice had turned hollow.
“But?”
“But there is no body now.”
Marco came forward carrying a sealed plastic evidence bag.
Inside was a photograph.
Old. Folded. Water-damaged.
He handed it to Victor.
Victor opened it with the care of a man touching a ghost.
The photo showed Camila.
Alive.
Standing beside a woman whose face made my knees weaken.
My mother.
Between them stood a little girl with dark hair and solemn eyes.
Me.
On the back, written in Camila’s hand, were seven words.
SHE WAS THE FIRST CHILD WE SAVED.
My breath left me.
Victor turned the photo over again, staring at my mother’s face.
“You didn’t know her,” I whispered.
“No.”
“But Camila did.”
“Yes.”
The priest crossed himself.
I looked at the empty grave.
“Victor,” I said slowly, “what if Camila wasn’t the only one hiding things?”
He turned to me.
Before he could answer, his phone rang.
He looked at the screen.
Unknown number.
Every guard around us stiffened.
Victor answered.
A woman’s voice came through.
Soft.
Weak.
Familiar only because I had heard it once from a video recorded by a dead woman.
“Victor,” she said.
He went white.
The phone nearly slipped from his hand.
I reached for him.
The voice breathed again.
“If Clara is with you, tell her I’m sorry.”
Victor’s lips parted.
One word fell out, broken beyond recognition.
“Camila?”
May you like
The line clicked dead.
And beneath the empty grave, something began to beep.
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