Chapter 409
Chapter 409:
“Ancient Pack law, Carmella,” he said, his voice settling into a mask of feigned sympathy. “Bloodlines tainted by silver are considered impure. They don’t get names on headstones p>
I didn’t cry anymore. A cold, blinding tunnel vision took over. I marched to the marble kitchen island and slammed a black pen onto a notepad. “Write down the exact address. Now p>
His trembling hand scrawled the location. The second the pen left his fingers, I pointed at the door. “Get out p>
He didn’t need to be told twice. He fled, leaving me alone in the dark.
By 4:00 AM, I was a ghost moving through my own life. I dressed in a heavy black coat — a pilgrim preparing for a funeral seven years delayed — and took the elevator down to the underground garage. The engine of my Porsche Cayenne roared to life in the dead silence.
The Manhattan streets were empty and pitch-black. I stopped only once, pulling over at a brightly lit 24-hour florist. The bell chimed cheerfully as I walked into the refrigerated section and grabbed the largest bouquet of pure white roses I could find, my numb fingers barely registering the cold.
The two-hour drive up the highway was a blur of asphalt and headlights. By 6:00 AM, I had reached the Hudson Valley.
The GPS guided me down a narrow, winding gravel road that ended abruptly at a massive, rusted wrought-iron gate. Heavy chains and a corroded padlock secured it shut. The air was freezing, thick with a dense, swirling gray fog that swallowed the ancient stone walls surrounding the property.
I didn’t care about the lock. I walked along the perimeter until I found a section of the wall that had collapsed beneath the weight of dead ivy. Clutching the white roses to my chest, I scrambled over the jagged rocks, tearing my coat, and dropped into the wet grass on the other side.
The memorial park was a forgotten graveyard of our kind. Rows of dark, damp headstones leaned at awkward angles, their carved Pack runes faded by centuries of rain. The silence was absolute, broken only by the crunch of my boots on dead leaves.
I walked deeper into the fog, my heart hammering a frantic, agonizing rhythm against my ribs.
𝖢𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗌𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗌 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇
Then the mist parted.
Standing in the distance, partially obscured by creeping vines, was a tall stone angel. Its carved wings were folded in sorrow, its face buried in its hands — weeping eternally over a blank, unmarked granite slab.
Carmella’s POV
I fell to my knees. The freezing mud soaked instantly through my jeans, but I couldn’t feel the cold. I couldn’t feel anything except the gaping, bleeding crater in my chest.
I crawled toward the unmarked granite slab, my trembling fingers tracing the rough, blank stone. No name. No date. Just an eternity of nothingness for a pup who never even had the chance to take his first breath. A guttural, agonizing sob tore through my throat. I clawed at the dirt and the stone, my nails cracking and bleeding against the granite, desperate to reach the child I had failed to protect.