Chapter 8 - CLEANING THE HOUSE
Dawn broke over the North Shore on Monday morning in a blaze of clear, crisp blue.
The fire in the conservatory had been extinguished within an hour, contained entirely by the estate's automated fire suppression system. The glass damage was extensive, but the main structure of the mansion remained completely unharmed.
By eight o'clock, three unmarked black vans sat in the rear driveway.
Vane’s men were quietly and efficiently clearing away the evidence of the night's violence, loading tarps into the back of the vans to be transported to a furnace in Newark.
In the master study, Alessandro sat behind his desk.
He had changed into a clean black suit. His face was washed, though the dark circles under his pale blue eyes remained.
Across the desk stood Marco Vane, holding a black leather notebook.
"Matteo Valenti is dead, boss," Vane reported calmly. "He tried to run through the woods near the marsh. We intercepted him at the fence line. The rest of his crew is accounted for."
Alessandro nodded slowly, sipping his espresso. "And the Jersey families?"
"I called Don Carmine in Brooklyn an hour ago," Vane said, a dark smirk touching his scarred mouth. "When he heard Matteo sent arsonists into a house with two small children, he severed all diplomatic ties with Philadelphia. The Valenti family is officially finished, boss. Nobody is going to throw a single stone at this estate ever again."
"Good," Alessandro said softly. "Make sure the guards at the gate are doubled until the conservatory glass is replaced."
"Understood," Vane said. He closed his notebook, stepping toward the door, then paused. "Boss?"
"What?"
"The housekeeper," Vane said gently. "She stepped up last night. She kept that child quiet through the whole thing."
Alessandro looked down at his desk. "I know."
"She’s a good woman, Alessandro," Vane added softly, dropping the formal 'boss' address for the first time in months. "Your father used to say that a house without a heart is just a mausoleum. You’ve been living in a tomb for eleven months. Don't let her go."
Alessandro did not answer. He watched Vane walk out of the study and close the heavy walnut door behind him.
Alessandro sat in the quiet room for a long moment.
Slowly, deliberately, he reached his left hand out across the polished wood. His fingers touched the cool, sterling silver edge of the picture frame that had been lying face down for eleven months.
He turned it over.
Isabella’s bright, beautiful smile beamed up at him from the photograph, taken on a beach in Capri three years ago during their honeymoon.
Alessandro stared at his late wife’s face for a long time.
He expected to feel the suffocating wave of guilt, the agonizing phantom weight of three gunshots, the cold horror that had haunted his sleep every night since Manhattan.
Instead, looking at her smile, he felt a strange, clean quiet settle over his mind.
May you like
"I saved her, Isabella," Alessandro whispered to the quiet room. "I saved our daughter. And I found someone to help us keep her safe."
He reached out with his thumb, gently brushed a speck of dust off the glass frame, and left the photograph standing upright in the warm morning light.
