Chapter 5 - THE FIRST STEP
The spring came early to Long Island that year.
By the first week of May, the snow had vanished entirely from the Duca estate, replaced by a sea of green grass, blooming yellow daffodils, and the warm, sweet air blowing off the Sound.
The mansion’s grand gallery had been completely restored—the marble polished, the wood paneling replaced, the dark stain of blood removed so thoroughly that no trace of the February battle remained.
In the lower garden beneath the maple tree, the wooden basin sat empty on the green grass.
It was ten o'clock on a brilliant Sunday morning.
The terrace doors were wide open, letting the warm spring breeze blow through the house, carrying the scent of sea salt and blooming jasmine into every room.
Lorenzo sat on a wrought-iron garden bench near the fountain, wearing a simple white linen shirt, his sleeves rolled up, a cup of black coffee resting on the small table beside him.
His hair was noticeably grayer at the temples than it had been three months ago, but his gray eyes were clear, rested, and calm.
The Moretti family was gone—their assets seized by federal authorities, their street crews dispersed, their senior leaders serving life sentences or residing in unmarked graves in New Jersey. The docks of Brooklyn and Newark were peaceful, operating under the absolute, unchallenged authority of the Duca logistics network.
Beside Lorenzo sat Sophia Rossi, wearing a simple blue summer dress, her dark hair pinned back with a silver clip. She was no longer a housemaid. She was the estate’s resident administrator, managing the household staff, the property schedule, and the educational programs for both children.
Out on the lawn, twenty feet away, Emma was running in circles around the bare trunk of the maple tree, chasing a yellow butterfly with a small butterfly net her mother had bought her at the village store.
"Look, Mommy!" Emma shouted, her honey curls bouncing around her face. "I almost got him! He’s flying to Italy!"
Isabella sat in her wheelchair nearby.
She was wearing a light yellow summer dress that matched Emma’s cardigan, her dark hair tied back with a blue silk ribbon. She was watching Emma with a bright, luminous smile—a smile that was no longer rare, but had become the natural state of her face over the past three months.
"He's not flying to Italy, Emma!" Isabella called out, laughing. "He's just going to the rose bushes!"
"He told me he wants an pizza!" Emma insisted, stopping and resting her small hands on her hips, her red knitted cap long forgotten in her bedroom closet.
Emma walked over to Isabella’s wheelchair, set her butterfly net on the grass, and sat down on her heels right in front of Isabella’s footrests.
She reached out and took Isabella’s hands.
"The grass is warm today," Emma said, looking up into Isabella’s face. "Grandma Maria said when the grass gets warm, everything remembers."
Isabella looked down at her own feet.
She was wearing small white leather shoes today—not the heavy green velvet slippers of winter, but light, flexible summer shoes with soft rubber soles.
"Emma," Isabella murmured softly.
"Yes?"
"My toes feel like needles."
The garden went completely silent.
Lorenzo’s coffee cup froze halfway to his lips.
Sophia stood up from the wrought-iron bench so fast she almost knocked her chair over, her hands clutching her dress, her eyes widening in disbelief.
"What did you say, Isabella?" Lorenzo asked, his voice shaking—the first time anyone on the estate had ever heard Lorenzo Duca’s voice shake with emotion.
He stood up, stepping off the terrace onto the green grass, walking slowly, almost reverently, toward his daughter.
Isabella didn't look at her father. She kept her dark eyes fixed on Emma’s small, warm hands holding hers.
"My toes," Isabella whispered, tears suddenly brimming in her eyes—not tears of pain, but of a strange, overwhelming surprise. "They... they feel like the needles Emma talked about. Like when your arm sleeps."
Emma smiled—a bright, serene, knowing smile that seemed older than time itself.
"I told you," Emma whispered softly. "The red horse is waking up."
Emma took a small step backward onto the green grass, still holding Isabella’s fingertips.
"Come on," Emma said gently. "The dog wants to go for a walk."
Isabella took a deep, shuddering breath.
She looked at her father, who was now kneeling on the grass three feet away, his hands reaching out, his face pale, his eyes wet with tears he had not shed since his wife died.
"Daddy..." Isabella whispered.
"I’m right here, my love," Lorenzo choked out. "I’m right here."
Isabella shifted her weight forward in the wheelchair.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Her right leg—the pale, thin leg that six world-renowned neurologists had declared dead—moved forward off the aluminum footrest.
Her white leather shoe touched the warm spring grass.
Then her left leg followed.
She stood up.
She wobbled, her knees shaking violently, her thin frame swaying in the warm sea breeze like a young sapling taking its first storm.
Lorenzo reached out to catch her, but Isabella raised one small hand, stopping him.
"No, Daddy," Isabella said, her voice clear, strong, filled with a power that made the birds in the maple tree stop singing. "Emma is holding me."
With three-year-old Emma Rossi holding her fingertips, six-year-old Isabella Duca took one small, fragile, unassisted step forward onto the grass.
Then a second.
May you like
Then a third.
And under the bright May sun, beside the old maple tree that had survived the freezing winter, Lorenzo Duca covered his face with his hands and wept quietly, while two little girls walked together through the warm green grass toward the rose garden.
