‘Sure.’ She turned out of Cedar Hill and we started heading towards the open road.
‘And please be honest.’
‘I am a pillar of integrity.’
‘Are you or are you not reading a Dr Phil book right now?’
‘That man is a saint, Sophie Gracewell. A damn saint.’
A laugh bubbled out of me. ‘The things you do for me.’
‘Tell me about it,’ she sighed. She revved the engine and the car sped up, setting a steady course for the cemetery.
CHAPTER NINE
THE CEMETERY
Graceland Cemetery was enormous; almost one hundred and twenty acres of constructed landscape that had been growing since 1860. Now it was a Who’s Who of Chicago’s most important figures. We got the Falcone mausoleum’s location from the main office and chose the most direct route to the lake at the north end of the cemetery. It was bordered by clumps of shrubs and weeping trees. Along the edges, the water was dotted with elaborate stone mausoleums with plaques etched in bronze above them. Some of the names were familiar to me; that’s how I knew we were getting close. We stalled in criminal territory – between the Marinos and the Genoveses – and I pulled out the map again.
‘Crime really does pay,’ said Millie, releasing a low whistle. ‘The question is, which of these Mafia families would I have to marry into to get a sarcophagus?’
We stopped at the inked circle on the map and Millie pointed at something in the trees. ‘I bet it’s right on the lake. Prime cemetery real estate. Classic Falcone, eh?’
We made our way along the hidden path. When the branches of overgrown trees tapered away and the way widened, we found ourselves standing on the edge of the lake. There, secluded by the surrounding trees, and poised along the waterfront, was the Falcone mausoleum.
‘Holy crap,’ muttered Millie. ‘How many gangsters are in this thing?’
The mausoleum was a gargantuan structure made of unblemished white stone. On either side of the main chamber, decorative Roman columns marked a small square courtyard filled with hundreds of long-stemmed red roses.
Two weeping angels guarded the entrance to the mausoleum and above the double bronze doors, the Falcone crest had been erected. Thick block letters were etched into the stone:
CASA DI FALCONE
LA FAMIGLIA PRIMA DI TUTTO
We stood, dwarfed, in front of it.
I pulled the switchblade from my pocket. ‘Should I leave it on the steps?’
‘I guess.’ Millie frowned. ‘It could get stolen, though.’
‘We can’t break in,’ I said. ‘Look at those doors.’
She made her way up the steps and started jiggling the horseshoe handles. With a deafening thud, the door yielded, and she heaved it open, her mouth dropping into a perfect O as she swivelled to face me.
I sprinted up the steps. ‘Oh my God!’
‘We’re breaking in!’
‘We’re going to get in so much trouble!’
‘OK, wait.’ Millie composed herself. ‘Maybe you should go in first with the switchblade and put it somewhere. I’ll keep watch, then when you come out, we’ll swap, so I can see what it’s like inside.’
I was already slipping inside. My pulse was racing and I couldn’t wait any longer. The darkness was pulling me in.
Millie closed the door behind me. It thumped against the stone, sealing me off from the outside world. There was a sudden absence of warmth, and a staleness in the air. I felt peculiar, as though I was not only stepping into a tomb but into the past as well.
CHAPTER TEN
THE MAUSOLEUM
I waited for my eyes to adjust to the dimness. At the end of the passageway, a crescent-shaped stained-glass window sprinkled rays along the ground. At my feet, sparkling shades of blues, greens and reds streaked towards me. On either side of me, tombs were inlaid into the marble like drawers, with stately black handles on either side. They were all marked with a simple plaque, engraved with gold lettering. A corresponding Roman numeral accompanied each name on a separate line.
I brushed my fingers over the inscriptions as I shuffled along, listening to my footfall against the stone floor.
A heavy bronze door had been pushed open at the end of the passageway. The room beyond was dusky, illuminated by a handful of errant rays coming from the window behind me.
I froze in the doorway.
Someone was sitting on a marble bench in the middle of the room. He had his back to me – facing towards another wall of tombs, where Angelo Falcone’s inscription seemed to glow brighter than the others.
Like a statue cursed to life, Luca turned to face me.
‘Oh.’ That was all I could come up with. Seeing him again, alive and so close, his blue eyes blazing in the dimness, caught me completely off guard. Something was snaking around my stomach, clenching and unclenching, as the memory of our last moments together came flooding back.