THE GHOST WEARING WHITE: How I Tricked a Mafia Empire to Hunt My Sister’s Killer

The silence inside St. Augustine Cathedral did not just fall; it heavy-pressed against my chest like a physical weight. Every breath I took felt like inhaling cold ash. Franco Rinaldi, the silver-haired shadow who kept Gabriel Donatelli alive, stood close enough for me to smell the faint, bitter scent of Turkish tobacco on his wool coat.

"She talked about me?" I whispered, my voice barely carrying over the low, rhythmic chanting of the priest who had resumed the funeral service.

Franco didn’t look at me. His eyes remained fixed on the entrance of the church, scanning the heavy oak doors, the choir loft, the dark corners where the stained glass failed to cast any light. "She did," he murmured. "Only once. A year ago, after a shipment went missing in Seattle. Gabriel was furious, burning down half the docks looking for the leak. Natalie sat in the study, watching him break a hand-carved desk with his bare fists, and she told me: 'My sister would have found the thief in five minutes without raising her voice.' I thought she was making up a fairy tale to soothe her own fear. I see now she was telling the truth."

"She was warning you," I said, my gaze drifting back to the front pew.

Gabriel sat stiffly, his shoulders locked. He didn't look back at me, but I could see the muscles in his jaw twitching. He was a man accustomed to absolute control, now forced to sit in a house of God while the ghost of the only woman he loved stood at the back of the room.

"Perhaps," Franco said. "Or perhaps she was hoping you would come and save her."

"I was too late for that."

"We were all too late, Lauren." Franco finally turned his head, his gray eyes cutting through me like a scalpel. "But the question is, why are you here now? If you hated this life enough to cut off your own flesh and blood for three years, why put on her face and walk into a den of wolves?"

"Because Natalie didn’t die in a car crash," I said, keeping my voice dead and cold. "The email from Rachel Bell said she lost control on Lake Shore Drive. But our father taught us how to inspect vehicles when we were twelve years old. Before I came here, I paid a visit to the impound lot where they kept her crushed sedan. The brake lines weren't severed—that would be too obvious. Someone had slowly bled the hydraulic fluid and replaced it with a synthetic compound that degrades under high heat. It was designed to fail only when she hit high speeds on the highway."

Franco’s posture didn't change, but his pupils dilated. "You are your father's daughter."

"I am my sister’s avenger," I corrected. "And the person who did that is sitting in this church."

The funeral ended not with a prayer, but with a quiet, synchronized movement of armed men. As the pallbearers lifted Natalie’s white-lacquered casket, Gabriel stood. He didn't follow the coffin. Instead, he turned his imposing frame toward me, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made the air in my lungs turn to ice.

He walked down the aisle, his long, deliberate strides eating up the distance between us. The crowd of mourners parted for him like the sea before a storm. When he stopped in front of me, I could see the faint, silver scar running along his left temple—a souvenir of some forgotten war.

"You're coming with me," Gabriel said. It wasn't an invitation. It was a decree.

"I have to go to the cemetery," I replied, standing my ground. "I need to see her buried."

"The cemetery is a security risk," Gabriel said, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper that vibrated with suppressed rage. "There are people who wanted Natalie dead. Now they see you. If you stay out in the open, you won't live long enough to see the dirt hit her casket. Franco, get the car."

"Gabriel—"

"Now, Lauren." He reached out, his leather-gloved hand wrapping around my forearm. His grip was tight, but not painful—a desperate anchor holding onto a mirage.

As he led me out of the cathedral's side exit, the cold Chicago wind hit my face, bringing with it the scent of oncoming rain. We walked toward a convoy of armored black SUVs waiting in the alley.

Just before I stepped into the back seat of Gabriel’s vehicle, I looked up at the gothic spires of the cathedral. High up in the belfry, a flash of light caught my eye—a reflection of the grey afternoon sun against glass.

A sniper scope.