Chapter 9: Gardens in the Mist
The cold night air hit my face like a physical blow, carrying the damp scent of manicured boxwoods and wet gravel. I walked toward the edge of the stone balcony, my fingers gripping the wrought-iron railing as I stared out across the sprawling grounds of the suburban estate. The manicured lawns faded into a thick predawn mist that rolled in from the nearby lake, blurring the sharp lines of the property into soft, eerie shapes. Behind me, the heavy glass door slid open on its silent tracks, and the soft amber light of the study spilled across the flagstone patio. Footsteps crunched softly on the gravel, heavy and measured.
I didn't turn around. I could feel his presence close behind me, stopping a few feet away, respecting the invisible boundary I had drawn with my back. For a long minute, neither of us spoke. The only sound was the distant hum of traffic on the highway miles away and the steady dripping of dew from the oak trees overhead.
"You should have worn a coat," Salvatore said quietly, his voice low and devoid of its usual defensive edge. He stepped up beside me, resting his hands on the cold iron railing. He looked older in the pale morning light, the sharp stubble along his jaw catching the dim glow from the house, the harsh executive persona stripped away to reveal the exhausted man beneath.
"A coat wouldn't have kept out the last twenty years," I replied, my voice flat, staring straight ahead into the gray fog. "You built an empire on blood and ledgers, and you left me waiting tables in a dive while you mapped out every move."
"I kept you alive, Audrey," Salvatore said, turning his head to look at me, his dark eyes intense and unblinking. "When Bellandi died, the wolves circled. Moretti wanted every asset, every trace of our father's bloodline wiped clean so he could take over the board. If I had brought you into the fold, if anyone had known about the girl tucked away in a quiet Chicago neighborhood, Moretti would have used you to break me. I protected you by making you invisible."
"Invisible," I echoed, the word tasting like ash in my mouth. I finally turned my head to meet his gaze, the anger in my chest hardening into something cold and resolute. "You traded my presence for safety. But the safety is gone now. Moretti is still sitting on the board, and he's still skimming the accounts."
"Which is why we finish this today," Salvatore said, his posture straightening as the resolve returned to his frame. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a heavy brass key, laying it gently on the stone ledge between us. "Moretti thinks he owns the old guard. He thinks the senior capos will back him because they're afraid of change. But they're more afraid of losing what's left of their pensions. We go to the downtown club this morning. We call an emergency sit-down. And we take back the board."
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I looked down at the brass key, then back up into my brother's eyes. The resentment didn't vanish—it couldn't, not after everything—but beneath it, a new alignment took root. We were two sides of the same shattered coin, forged in the same dark house and shaped by the same dangerous legacy. I reached out, my fingers closing around the cold brass key.
"All right," I said, my voice steady and firm in the cold morning air. "Let's go meet the family."
