Chapter 4 - Beneath the Ancient Oak
An hour later, the sun had shifted behind the western ridge, casting long, bruised shadows across the lawn.
Alessandro sat with his back against the thick, rugged bark of the ancient oak tree, his legs stretched out before him. For the first time in twenty years, his eyes were closed.
He wasn't sleeping—not truly. A mob boss who sleeps deeply in an open garden is a dead mob boss. But he was resting, his senses tuned to the subtle shifts in the wind and the crunch of gravel fifty yards away where his guards patrolled the perimeter.
Then, a warm, shifting weight settled against his ribs.
Emma, tired from chasing grasshoppers and examining dandelions, had climbed uninvited onto his lap, curled into a tight ball against his chest, and laid her head directly over his heart. Her breathing slowed, turning soft and rhythmic against his shirt.
Alessandro’s eyes snapped open.
He looked down at the crown of soft brown curls resting beneath his chin. Her small hand was clutched tightly around the lapel of his jacket, right where his pistol rested.
A sniper could have taken him from the tree line. Carlo could have walked out from the terrace with a status report. Any of a hundred enemies could have made their move in this exact second.
Instead, all he felt was the improbable, steady warmth of a sleeping child.
A rustle in the brush near the perimeter wall made him tense. Alessandro didn't move his head, but his gray eyes narrowed as he scanned the treeline.
A figure stepped out from behind a thick cluster of rhododendrons.
It was Carlo Ricci.
Carlo walked slowly across the grass, stopping twenty paces away, maintaining the strict boundary Alessandro demanded. But there was something different in Carlo’s posture today. His hands were clasped behind his back, and his silver-haired head was tilted with a strange, calculating curiosity.
"Boss," Carlo called out softly, his voice carrying easily across the quiet lawn. "You have a visitor arriving at the main gates in ten minutes. Marcus Vance from the downtown syndicate wants an audience regarding the Brooklyn docks."
Alessandro didn't answer immediately. He looked down at Emma, who stirred slightly in her sleep, her tiny fingers tightening their grip on his jacket.
"Tell Marcus to wait in the formal parlor," Alessandro said quietly, his voice pitched just low enough to travel. "And bring him a glass of ice water. He looks like he’s been running from something."
Carlo smiled—a thin, polite curve of the lips that didn't reach his eyes. "Always intuitive, Alessandro. Shall I have the guards clear the lawn? The child shouldn't be here when Vance arrives. He’s... unpredictable."
"The child stays," Alessandro said.
Carlo’s eyebrows flicked upward in a rare display of surprise. "Boss, Vance is dangerous. And the girl... well, she belongs to the new cleaning woman. It’s unbefitting for a Moretti to—"
"Are you questioning my decisions, Carlo?"
The question wasn't loud, but it carried the crushing weight of an avalanche.
Carlo bowed his head smoothly, the mask of absolute loyalty sliding back into place. "Never, Boss. I’ll prepare Mr. Vance in the parlor."
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As Carlo turned and walked back toward the house, Alessandro watched his retreating figure through narrowed eyes. For fifteen years, Carlo Ricci had been the most reliable man in his life. He knew every code, every account, every secret.
So why, for the first time in fifteen years, did Alessandro feel like the shadow standing behind him was growing teeth?
