Chapter 5 - MY FATHER’S DEATH WITHOUT A BODY
My father disappeared when I was seventeen.
The family called it a harbor ambush.
His car was found near Charlestown.
Blood inside.
Two shell casings.
No body.
The working assumption was simple.
A rival crew killed Patrick Riley and removed the body.
Boston had produced less elegant disappearances.
My grandfather declared him dead socially long before a court did legally.
The wolf coin vanished too.
I inherited nothing from Patrick directly.
The businesses flowed through my grandfather.
Years later, after the old man died, authority came to me and Leo.
I had never questioned why succession looked so clean.
Until now.
Father Brennan had attended my birthday dinner.
He had also buried Leo.
And blessed an empty memorial stone for Patrick twenty years earlier.
When I showed him a photograph of the coin, he sat down.
“Where?”
“A child.”
His face tightened.
“Whose?”
“My daughter.”
That required explanation.
I did not give it yet.
“Is my father alive?”
Father Brennan stared at the crucifix behind his desk.
“Priests are not useful when people expect simple answers.”
“Try.”
“Your father came to me after the harbor.”
My hands went cold.
“Alive.”
“Yes.”
“You let us bury an empty coffin.”
“I stood at a memorial service.”
Technical distinction.
I almost admired it.
“Why?”
“Patrick believed disappearing was the only way to keep you and Leo alive.”
“From whom?”
Brennan looked at me.
“Not from the people your family blamed.”
Another door.
Not the answer.
“What had he done?”
“He wanted out.”
“So he ran?”
“No.”
Father Brennan’s expression sharpened.
“He tried to take evidence with him.”
Evidence against the Riley organization.
Against men my grandfather trusted.
Possibly my grandfather himself.
Patrick planned to cooperate with federal investigators.
Then somebody discovered it.
“He abandoned us.”
“Yes.”
The priest did not soften it.
“He also believed staying would get you killed.”
“Did he ever come back?”
“Not to you.”
That hurt more.
Then Brennan said:
“Leo found out.”
I stopped.
“When?”
“Months before he died.”
Suddenly my brother’s final year looked different.
His questions about our old businesses.
His arguments with Marcus.
The night he told me:
“We inherited stories, Damon. Not facts.”
I had laughed.
May you like
Three weeks later, somebody shot him four times.
And Marcus Bell had given me the names of the alleged killers before sunrise.
