Page 36 of The Mafia King's Baby

We walk back to the car together, and I open the trunk to reveal Lang’s wrapped body. The bundle looks smaller in the open air and less ominous than it seemed in Celia’s living room. It’s just a problem to be solved. Evidence to be concealed. “Help me get him out.”

Celia positions herself at one end of the bundle while I take the other. We lift together, and the weight distribution is awkward but manageable. The walk back to the grave takes longer than the walk to the car since we have to move carefully to avoid tripping over roots or holes in the uneven ground.

When we reach the grave, I lower my end of the bundle first, guiding it into the hole while Celia controls the descent from above. The wrapped body settles into the rectangular space with a soft thud that sounds final and irreversible.

“Is that it?”

I pick up the shovel and begin filling the hole, working faster now that the hardest part is over. “Now we cover him up and get out of here.”

The dirt falls onto the wrapped bundle with a series of soft impacts that gradually muffle into silence as the grave fills. Celia continues holding the flashlight, though she’s turned her face away from the hole. I don’t blame her. Watching a grave being filled is somehow worse than digging it. It’s realer and more final.

“What happens now?”

I pause in my shoveling to look at her. “Now we disappear for a while.”

She doesn’t even blink at the “we.” “For how long?”

“However long it takes.”

“Takes for what?” Her responses seem more automatic than intentional, and it’s clear part of her isn’t here with me. She’ll break sometime soon, but I hope she waits until we’re away from here.

I resume filling the grave, using the repetitive motion to organize my thoughts. How much can I tell her? How much should she know about what comes next? “Lang wasn’t working alone. When his handlers realize he’s dead, they’ll come looking for whoever killed him.” I spread the last of the dirt over thegrave and use the shovel to scatter leaves and debris across the surface. “They’ll start with you.”

“With me?”

“Your house was his last known location. When he doesn’t report in, they’ll trace his movements.” I step back to examine our work. The grave is invisible now, just another patch of forest floor. “They’ll find your address, interview your neighbors, and search your property.”

Celia lowers the flashlight, and we’re suddenly surrounded by darkness broken only by distant stars. “What will they find?”

“Nothing, if we’re lucky. My people will clean your house and eliminate any evidence that either Lang or I were ever there.” I gather the tools we brought and start walking back toward the car. “But they’ll keep looking, especially since you won’t be there. They’ll know something happened if not what exactly.”

“So we run.”

“We disappear. There’s a difference.”

She follows me through the trees, her footsteps uncertain on the uneven ground. “What’s the difference?”

“Running implies they’re chasing us. Disappearing means they can’t find us to chase.” I open the car trunk and load the shovel and other supplies. “I have places they don’t know about and people they can’t trace.”

“People like you?”

“People who owe me favors. People who understand the value of mutual protection.” I close the trunk and move to the driver’s side door. “People who know how to keep secrets.”

Celia gets into the passenger seat, and I start the engine. The headlights cut through the darkness as we reverse out of the clearing and back onto the dirt track. In a few hours, hikers might walk within fifty feet of Lang’s grave without knowing it exists. In a few days, leaves and other debris will hide it even more, and within weeks, the forest will reclaim the site completely.

“Where are we going?”

“North. I have a place in Idaho.” I navigate the rough track carefully, avoiding the worst of the potholes and fallen branches. “Remote, secure, and stocked with everything we need. I bought it from a former prepper when he found out he was dying and had no one to inherit all his careful preparations.”

“For how long?”

We reach the main road, and I turn the car toward the interstate. How long will it take to neutralize the threat Lang represented? How long before it’s safe for Celia to return to her normal life—if that’s even possible anymore? I won’t lie to her again if I can help it. “I don’t know. A while. You might never return to the life you had.”

She stares at me in horror. “My mother...” She trails off into a silence that suggests she’s lost in her thoughts and pain.

We drive in continued silence for the next hour, the highway stretching ahead of us in an endless ribbon of asphalt and yellow lines. Celia stares out the passenger window at the darkness, and I focus on the road while my mind processes what just happened and what comes next.

I’ve involved a civilian in activities that could destroy both our lives. Worse, I’ve involved a civilian I care about, someone whorepresents everything I thought I’d given up when I inherited leadership of mine and my brother’s organization that we built when we started over in the US at fifteen with the money Father had set aside to fund the family’s escape, before the assassin caught up with him first. The smart move would be to set her up with a new identity and enough money to disappear permanently, then never see her again.

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