Chapter 7
We decided to go up to the cabin ourselves.
Not to confront Marco.
Just to confirm he was there.
Then we would call Detective Carter.
That was the plan.
Tony, Vinnie, and I would go. Joey and Tommy would stay behind to protect Sarah and Leo.
We left at dawn.
The drive up into the mountains was beautiful. Tall pine trees, crisp air, the sun rising over the peaks.
But none of us were in the mood to appreciate it.
We were all thinking about Marco.
About what he had done.
About what might happen when we found him.
The cabin was at the end of a long dirt road, hidden among the trees.
We parked a mile away and walked the rest of the way.
We moved quietly, carefully, through the woods.
When we reached the cabin, we stopped behind some trees and watched.
It was small, made of logs, with a stone chimney. Smoke was coming out of the chimney.
Someone was home.
A few minutes later, the door opened.
A man stepped out.
He was older than he had been in the photograph. His hair was grayer. His face was harder. There were lines around his eyes and mouth.
But it was him.
Marco Rinaldi.
I felt my brothers tense beside me.
Ten years.
Ten years of wondering what he looked like now. What he was doing. If he was still alive.
And here he was.
Standing on the porch of a cabin in the mountains, drinking coffee, like he hadn't destroyed a family. Like he hadn't killed a good man.
Vinnie started to move forward, but Tony held him back.
"Not yet," Tony whispered.
We watched for another hour.
Marco didn't leave the cabin.
No one else was there.
He was alone.
"We have what we need," Tony said. "Let's go. Call Detective Carter."
We started to walk back to the car.
But as we turned to leave, I stepped on a twig.
It snapped.
Loudly.
Marco's head snapped toward the woods.
"Who's there?" he shouted.
We froze.
Marco reached into his jacket and pulled out a gun.
"I know someone's out there!" he yelled. "Come out now, or I start shooting!"
We looked at each other.
There was no choice.
We stepped out from behind the trees.
Marco's eyes went wide when he saw us.
Recognition.
And fear.
"Donnelly," he whispered.
He raised the gun.
But Tony was faster.
He pulled his own gun—we'd brought them, just in case—and fired.
Not at Marco.
At the gun in his hand.
The bullet hit Marco's wrist. He screamed and dropped the weapon.
Vinnie and I ran forward. We tackled him to the ground before he could reach for another gun.
We pinned him there, face down in the dirt.
Marco struggled, but he was no match for three angry Donnelly brothers.
"Get off me!" he screamed. "You don't know what you're doing!"
"We know exactly what we're doing," Tony said, standing over him. His voice was cold as ice. "We're arresting you for the murder of our father."
Marco laughed—a bitter, desperate sound.
"Arresting me? You're not cops. You're just a bunch of thugs. Just like me."
"We're nothing like you," I said, my voice tight with anger. "Our father was a good man. You killed him for no reason."
Marco looked up at me, and there was something in his eyes I didn't expect.
Defiance.
"No reason?" he said. "Your father was no saint. He deserved what he got."
Tony's hand tightened around his gun.
"Shut your mouth," he said.
"Or what?" Marco spat. "You'll shoot me? Go ahead. Kill me. But you'll never know the truth."
"The truth about what?" Vinnie asked.
Marco smiled—a cruel, ugly smile.
May you like
"About why I killed your father," he said. "About what he really did. About the secret he took to his grave."
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