Chapter 2 - The Walk Through The Garden
The transition from the cold stone of the mansion to the garden was seamless,
the late afternoon sun casting long,
skeletal shadows across the manicured lawn.
Emma walked beside him,
her hand barely taking up two of his fingers,
her small feet leaving wet prints on the flagstone.
Alessandro moved with a predator’s grace,
but his mind was a chaotic storm of memories and questions.
He thought of his own mother,
scrubbing the very same floors before the Moretti name meant anything.
He remembered the scent of her lemon water,
and the way her hands looked when the winter air turned them raw.
Emma didn't speak,
her eyes darting toward the security guards who stood like statues at the gate.
They didn't move,
but he could feel their confusion,
their eyes following the boss and the laundry girl.
The rose garden was a riot of red and white,
but the thorns seemed sharper today,
reaching out as if to snag his sleeves.
The cottage sat at the edge of the property,
a small,
low-roofed building that had once been a gardener’s shed.
It looked peaceful,
with a wreath of dried flowers on the door and a small tricycle on the porch.
But as they approached,
Alessandro noticed the silence was too heavy,
too absolute.
There were no birds singing near the eaves,
and the windows were shuttered tight against the light.
"Is the door locked,
Emma?"
he asked,
stopping at the bottom of the steps.
She shook her head,
her dark curls bouncing.
"Mama let me out,"
she said,
"but she go back to bed."
"She say the bad sleep is here."
The bad sleep.
The phrase chilled him more than the winter wind in Jersey.
He stepped onto the porch,
the wood groaning under his weight,
a sound that felt like a warning.
He pushed the door open,
and the scent hit him immediately—not the scent of roses,
but the metallic,
sickly smell of a fever that has gone too long untended.
The living room was small and neat,
filled with toys and books,
a stark contrast to the hollow grandeur of his own house.
"Stay here,
Emma,"
he commanded,
his voice regaining its edge.
She obeyed,
sitting on the bottom step of the porch,
clutching the wet shirt she had refused to let go of.
Alessandro walked into the small bedroom,
the floorboards whispering under his boots.
Sophia Rossi lay on the bed,
her face as white as the sheets,
her breathing a shallow,
rattling sound.
He saw the medicine bottles on the nightstand,
empty and discarded,
and the bucket of water that had long since gone lukewarm.
She wasn't just sick,
she was fading,
slipping away in the heart of his territory.
And on the table beside her,
there was a folder,
thick and bulging with papers that bore a stamp he hadn't seen in decades.
May you like
It was the crest of the Bianchi family,
his oldest and most bitter rivals.
