Chapter 2 - THE FUNERAL CONTRACT
Roman read the funeral contract three times.
The words did not improve.
Private service.
Family-only mausoleum procession.
Closed casket unless medically approved.
Primary family contact:
Marcus D’Angelo.
Secondary contact:
Katherine D’Angelo.
Roman’s own name appeared beneath “decedent.”
Living men are not supposed to see finalized paperwork for their funerals.
Officer Ward took the document before Roman could tear it in half.
“Where did this come from?” she asked Marcus.
“My attorney.”
“Why?”
Marcus said nothing.
Katherine did.
“It was estate planning.”
Roman laughed.
No humor.
“Estate planning includes coffins now?”
“Your family has always preplanned funerals.”
“For the elderly.”
“Your father did.”
“My father was seventy-six and terminally ill.”
Katherine folded her arms.
“Roman, you have a heart condition.”
His heart condition was minor.
A rhythm problem controlled with medication.
Not remotely terminal.
Dr. Reddick told him that repeatedly.
Until recently.
Three weeks ago, Reddick began describing his condition as “less predictable.”
A week later, dosage changed.
Now the pills in his bottle did not match the label.
Roman felt sick.
Officer Ward asked for the funeral home.
The contract belonged to Bellamont & Sons.
Old.
Private.
The D’Angelo family had used it for generations.
Detectives called.
The funeral director confirmed the arrangement existed.
Deposit paid.
Who authorized it?
Marcus.
He claimed Roman wanted discreet preplanning.
Forgery?
Maybe.
The funeral home had a signed authorization.
Roman’s signature.
He never signed.
Another document.
Another lie.
Police took Marcus and Katherine in for formal questioning.
Neither was arrested immediately.
That infuriated Roman until Ward explained:
“We need evidence that the pills were altered, that the contract was forged, and that there was an actual plan to harm you.”
“My daughter heard them talking about medicine.”
“She’s three.”
“She tells the truth.”
“I’m not saying she doesn’t.”
Ward’s voice stayed calm.
“I’m saying a child’s statement must be handled carefully.”
Roman nodded.
He understood.
He hated it.
But understood.
Clara spent the night with Elena at a secure guest house.
Roman stayed in the estate under police and private security.
He did not take any medication.
A hospital cardiologist reviewed him and prescribed a temporary replacement from a sealed pharmacy supply.
At 2:17 a.m., Roman sat alone in his father’s study.
He had inherited D’Angelo Shipping two years earlier.
A company built over four generations.
Container freight.
Ports.
Warehouses.
Real estate.
Too much money.
Too many relatives.
The kind of family where weddings, funerals, and board meetings could all become power struggles.
Roman had tried to modernize everything.
Independent directors.
Audits.
Compliance.
His uncle called him disrespectful.
Marcus called him naïve.
Katherine called him cold.
Clara called him Daddy.
That was the title that mattered.
At three, Elena entered carrying coffee.
“You’re not sleeping.”
“No.”
“Good. Neither am I.”
She sat.
“Why Marcus?”
Roman looked at the fire.
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”
Marcus held twelve percent of the company.
Roman held thirty-eight.
Clara’s trust held fifteen, inherited from her late mother Sofia.
The rest belonged to relatives and public investment vehicles.
If Roman died before Clara turned twenty-one, his shares transferred into trust.
Who became interim voting trustee?
Roman had assumed Elena.
He pulled the trust.
Wrong.
Old provision.
If Roman died while Elena was unmarried and residing outside the country for more than six months—which she did for work—the temporary family trustee became the eldest eligible male D’Angelo board member.
Marcus.
Roman stared.
“There.”
Elena read it.
Her face changed.
“He gets your vote.”
“Temporarily.”
“How long?”
“Until the court confirms a permanent trustee.”
“That could take months.”
“Enough time to control the board.”
Marcus already had allies.
With Roman’s temporary voting block, he could remove executives, approve sales, change debt.
Maybe do more.
Katherine?
Her husband, Roman’s older brother Anthony, died four years earlier.
She received no major company stake because Anthony had sold most of his shares before death.
But she remained socially central to the family.
She had lived beyond her means for years.
Roman knew that.
He never cared.
Now he cared.
At nine the next morning, Officer Ward returned.
Lab preliminary.
The pills in Roman’s bottle contained a much higher dose of his heart medication combined with a sedative not listed on the prescription.
Enough to cause fainting.
Potentially worse.
“How much worse?”
“In the wrong combination, cardiac arrest.”
Elena went white.
Roman did not move.
“Fingerprints?”
“Mostly yours. Partial prints consistent with household handling. Nothing decisive.”
“Dr. Reddick?”
“We’re contacting him.”
He was missing.
His office said he canceled appointments and left town.
Phone off.
That made everyone less patient.
Police searched his clinic.
Computers removed.
Records preserved.
One nurse told detectives Reddick had been seeing Marcus privately.
Not as a patient.
Cash meetings.
Another nurse remembered Katherine collecting a prescription envelope for Roman.
Without Roman’s authorization.
Then came the insurance.
Roman’s financial adviser called.
A new life insurance policy application had been submitted three weeks earlier.
Twenty million dollars.
Insured:
Roman.
Beneficiary:
Clara D’Angelo Trust.
That sounded normal.
Until trustee designation.
Marcus D’Angelo.
Roman never applied.
Signature forged.
Medical exam waived based on existing physician certification.
Dr. Paul Reddick.
Roman stared.
“They’re making money from my death.”
The adviser corrected:
“Potentially. The policy is pending final activation.”
Who paid the premium deposit?
A company called K&M Heritage Consulting.
Katherine and Marcus.
Not subtle.
Unless you expected nobody to look while Roman was alive.
Then Clara’s child specialist finished the first interview.
She had more.
Not much.
Enough.
Clara said she heard Marcus tell Katherine:
“After Sunday dinner, we can’t wait.”
Sunday dinner.
Last night.
Then Reddick:
“He’ll be tired within twenty minutes.”
Katherine:
“And if the girl is there?”
Marcus:
“She sleeps upstairs.”
Clara had misunderstood “the girl” as herself.
Probably correct.
Then the specialist asked whether Clara had seen anyone touch Daddy’s medicine.
Clara nodded.
“Doctor Paul.”
“When?”
“Blue room day.”
Reddick brought the pills.
Potentially switched them.
Now the timeline existed.
But the most disturbing part came at the end.
Clara told the specialist Katherine showed her a black dress.
“She said I wear it when Daddy goes heaven.”
Roman stood when he heard that.
No child should be fitted for mourning before the parent is dead.
Where was the dress?
Clara said Katherine’s room.
Police searched.
Black child’s dress.
New.
Size 3T.
Still tagged.
Beside it:
A printed funeral seating plan.
Roman’s coffin at front.
Marcus in the family patriarch’s chair.
Katherine beside him.
Clara placed one seat away.
Her chair beside Roman at dinner had not been moved because of etiquette.
Katherine had already rehearsed a new family order.
Then Ward found something handwritten in the margin.
After service: announce guardianship.
Roman’s blood went cold.
“Guardianship of Clara?”
“Yes.”
“By whom?”
Ward showed him.
Katherine.
Roman stopped breathing.
If Roman died, Katherine planned not only to take Clara’s chair.
She planned to take Clara.
Bellamont & Sons also produced payment records showing Marcus had paid the funeral deposit through a private account two weeks earlier. Katherine had selected the flowers and submitted Clara’s dress size by email. Nothing about the arrangements had been casual.
The funeral director, horrified, told police he believed Roman had authorized everything through family representatives. That assumption became another lesson: prestige can make absurd requests look legitimate.
Bellamont & Sons also produced payment records showing Marcus had paid the funeral deposit through a private account two weeks earlier. Katherine had selected the flowers and submitted Clara’s dress size by email. Nothing about the arrangements had been casual.
The funeral director, horrified, told police he believed Roman had authorized everything through family representatives. That assumption became another lesson: prestige can make absurd requests look legitimate.
Bellamont & Sons also produced payment records showing Marcus had paid the funeral deposit through a private account two weeks earlier. Katherine had selected the flowers and submitted Clara’s dress size by email. Nothing about the arrangements had been casual.
The funeral director, horrified, told police he believed Roman had authorized everything through family representatives. That assumption became another lesson: prestige can make absurd requests look legitimate.
Bellamont & Sons also produced payment records showing Marcus had paid the funeral deposit through a private account two weeks earlier. Katherine had selected the flowers and submitted Clara’s dress size by email. Nothing about the arrangements had been casual.
The funeral director, horrified, told police he believed Roman had authorized everything through family representatives. That assumption became another lesson: prestige can make absurd requests look legitimate.
Bellamont & Sons also produced payment records showing Marcus had paid the funeral deposit through a private account two weeks earlier. Katherine had selected the flowers and submitted Clara’s dress size by email. Nothing about the arrangements had been casual.
The funeral director, horrified, told police he believed Roman had authorized everything through family representatives. That assumption became another lesson: prestige can make absurd requests look legitimate.
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Bellamont & Sons also produced payment records showing Marcus had paid the funeral deposit through a private account two weeks earlier. Katherine had selected the flowers and submitted Clara’s dress size by email. Nothing about the arrangements had been casual.
The funeral director, horrified, told police he believed Roman had authorized everything through family representatives. That assumption became another lesson: prestige can make absurd requests look legitimate.
