Chapter 5 - The Council in the East Wing
The east wing of the Duca estate was normally silent after midnight, but tonight every window blazed with light against the damp Manhattan fog.
Up in the private parlor, a fire crackled in the massive limestone hearth, casting long, dancing shadows across the mahogany wainscoting and the rows of heavy leather-bound ledgers stacked on the side tables.
Sophia stood by the arched window holding a steaming porcelain mug of chamomile tea, watching the red and blue emergency lights of three unmarked black SUVs pull away from the main security gates down below. Vincent Duca was in the back of the lead vehicle, bound for a private, subterranean holding facility three counties away where the syndicate’s internal tribunal would decide how long a traitor lived before the cement dried over his boots.
The door behind her clicked open.
Marco stepped into the parlor, followed closely by Dr. Enzo Ricci, who carried a black medical bag in one hand.
"How is he?" Sophia asked, turning away from the window.
"Stubborn as a mule," Marco grunted, pulling a heavy leather armchair closer to the fire and sinking into it with a tired sigh. "Enzo wanted to keep him in the regional trauma center for a week. Boss threatened to throw him out the third-story window if he didn't clear him for home recovery by sunrise. So, naturally, Enzo discharged him an hour ago."
Dr. Ricci chuckled softly, setting his bag down on a side table and rubbing the bridge of his nose. "A bullet graze to the lower oblique muscle and three cracked ribs, and the man acts like he’s got a mild case of indigestion. His vital signs are stable, Sophia. But he needs absolute rest for the next forty-eight hours. No phones, no ledgers, no boardroom meetings."
"Good luck telling him that," Sophia said, a faint smile touching her lips.
As if summoned by the conversation, the heavy double doors leading to Lorenzo’s private study swung open.
Lorenzo Duca walked into the parlor. He had changed out of the blood-soaked linen shirt into a clean charcoal turtleneck and heavy wool trousers. Though he walked with a slight, almost imperceptible hitch to his left side—favouring the ribs taped beneath his sweater—his carriage was as rigid and commanding as ever. The storm-gray eyes were clear, sharp, and entirely focused.
Marco and Dr. Ricci immediately stood up. Lorenzo waved a dismissive hand, telling them to sit back down, and walked slowly toward the fireplace, warming his hands over the crackling logs.
"Emma?" Lorenzo asked, looking directly at Sophia.
"Asleep," Sophia replied softly. "She crashed on the sofa in the staff sitting room twenty minutes ago, still clutching the gold-wrapped chocolate you gave her."
Lorenzo gave a short, approving nod. "Good. Children shouldn't stay up late. Especially not after a war."
He turned his head, looking at Marco. "Have the transport units cleared the perimeter?"
"All locked down, Boss," Marco reported crisply. "The Chicago contacts have been notified that their courier won't be checking in tonight. By sunrise, our shipping lanes will be entirely purged of Vincent’s loyalists. The council is scheduled for a breakfast briefing at eight. Everyone knows what happens to anyone who asks questions about where Vincent went."
"Good," Lorenzo said coldly.
He walked over to the mahogany sideboard, poured two fingers of amber whiskey into a crystal tumbler, and then paused, looking at Sophia.
"You drink, Sophia?"
"Only when the mansion smells like bleach and gunsmoke, Mr. Duca," she replied evenly.
A rare, genuine smile touched the corners of Lorenzo’s lips—a tight, grim smile that crinkled the skin around his eyes. He poured a second glass, walked across the Persian rug, and extended it toward her.
Sophia took the crystal glass, their fingers brushing briefly. The skin of his hand was warm, calloused, and steady.
"To housekeeping," Lorenzo said quietly, raising his glass in a silent toast.
"To staying invisible," Sophia countered, clinking her glass against his with a crisp, clear chime that echoed softly through the quiet parlor.
Lorenzo took a slow sip of his whiskey, his gray eyes holding hers with an intense, unwavering focus.
"You haven't been invisible to me for a long time, Sophia," he said, his voice dropping into a register that made the hair on the back of her arms stand up. "And after tonight, you never will be again."
Before Sophia could formulate a reply, the heavy iron grandfather clock in the grand hallway chimed twice.
May you like
Two in the morning.
The storm outside had finally broken, washing the limestone facade of the Duca estate with a steady, cleansing rain, washing away the blood from the stone steps, and sealing the new, unshakeable alliance forged in the dark between a fallen mob boss, a desperate mother, and a pair of broken pink craft scissors.
