Chapter 3 - ISABELLA’S GARDEN ROOM
Dominic had not entered the garden room since Isabella died.
He had built it for her when they renovated the estate twelve years earlier.
It wasn’t really a garden room.
It was half greenhouse, half sitting room.
Isabella grew herbs badly.
Tomatoes worse.
She kept books on every flat surface and played jazz too loudly on Sunday mornings.
After she died, Dominic locked the door.
Not because anything inside was valuable.
Because everything inside was.
Memory made strange things priceless.
At 2:17 in the morning, Dominic stood outside that door holding the brass key.
Marco stood behind him.
Maria had gone upstairs to stay with Emma.
“Boss.”
Dominic looked over.
“What?”
Marco nodded toward the lock.
“Want me to check it first?”
Dominic almost smiled.
“For basil?”
Marco didn’t.
Kane had been inside.
That changed things.
Dominic unlocked the door.
The room smelled dusty.
Cold.
One lamp was on.
Dominic stopped.
He had not turned on that lamp in four years.
Neither had Isabella.
Somebody had been here recently.
Marco noticed too.
“Anthony?”
“Looks like it.”
They stepped inside.
At first, nothing seemed disturbed.
Isabella’s old yellow chair.
Terracotta pots.
A stack of cookbooks.
The small radio she refused to replace even after the antenna broke.
Then Dominic saw a coffee cup on the desk.
Modern.
Black.
Not Isabella’s.
Beside it was a phone charger.
Marco walked toward a cabinet.
“Boss.”
The lower doors were open.
Inside were clothes.
A spare shirt.
Tie.
Shoes.
Kane had been using Isabella’s garden room like a private office.
Dominic felt something cold spread through him.
He opened the desk drawer.
Empty.
Second drawer.
Also empty.
But the wastebasket underneath contained torn envelopes, takeout containers and cigar bands.
Kane did not smoke cigars.
Camille did.
Dominic stared at one for several seconds.
Marco said nothing.
“Call Vincent.”
Marco nodded.
Vincent Russo had known Dominic since they were children.
He ran the Brooklyn side of Dominic’s organization and had never liked Kane.
Dominic used to think it was jealousy.
Now he wondered whether it was instinct.
Vincent arrived twenty-five minutes later.
Gray suit.
No tie.
Still chewing mint gum.
He walked into the garden room.
Took one look around.
Then:
“I told you.”
Dominic stared.
“Not tonight.”
Vincent raised both hands.
“Not saying another word.”
“You’re going to say plenty.”
Vincent stopped chewing.
“What happened?”
Dominic told him.
Not all of it.
Emma sleeping downstairs.
The blocked calls.
Kane entering Camille’s room.
That was enough.
Vincent’s face became increasingly dark.
Then Dominic asked:
“Who has Kane replaced in the last six months?”
Vincent stopped.
“What do you mean?”
“My household staff.”
“That I know.”
“No. Outside.”
Vincent looked toward Marco.
Then back.
“Too many people.”
“How many?”
“Your regular guys on West Side deliveries were moved.”
“Why?”
“Kane said you approved it.”
“I didn’t.”
“The night crew at Carmine’s changed.”
“I didn’t approve that either.”
Vincent’s expression shifted.
“And two of the drivers who used to handle you personally.”
Dominic stared.
“When?”
“Right after Christmas.”
Six weeks earlier.
Dominic suddenly remembered Peter.
The gate guard.
“Peter Rossi.”
Vincent frowned.
“What about him?”
“Kane told me Peter retired.”
“He didn’t.”
Dominic turned.
“You knew?”
Vincent nodded slowly.
“He came to me looking for work.”
“When?”
“Two months ago.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“He said you fired him.”
Dominic’s jaw tightened.
“What did he say happened?”
Vincent thought.
“He saw Kane leaving the house late.”
“With Camille?”
“He didn’t say.”
“Where is Peter now?”
“Queens.”
“Bring him.”
Vincent called.
Dominic walked around Isabella’s room while he waited.
He found nothing dramatic.
No secret ledger.
No hidden safe.
Just evidence that Kane had made himself comfortable in a place Dominic avoided because it hurt too much.
That detail bothered him almost more than the affair.
Kane understood Dominic’s grief.
Then used it as real estate.
At 3:08, Peter Rossi entered through the service door.
Sixty-one.
Gray hair.
Heavy winter coat.
He stopped when he saw Dominic.
“Mr. Moretti.”
Dominic looked at him.
“You didn’t retire.”
Peter laughed bitterly.
“No.”
“Why didn’t you come to me?”
“I tried.”
Dominic’s stomach tightened.
“When?”
“The day Kane fired me.”
“Called?”
“Three times.”
Dominic looked at Marco.
Marco already had his phone out.
Peter continued.
“Kane said you didn’t want to speak to me.”
“What did you see?”
Peter’s face changed.
“I was on the north gate.”
“What night?”
“January ninth.”
Dominic had been in Atlantic City.
Peter swallowed.
“Mr. Kane came out of the main house around four in the morning.”
“That’s all?”
“No.”
“He kissed Miss Laurent.”
Silence.
Vincent looked toward Dominic.
Dominic remained still.
Peter continued.
“I didn’t know what to do.”
“So you told Kane you saw him.”
Peter nodded.
“That was a mistake.”
“What happened?”
“He asked why I was watching the house.”
“You were security.”
“That’s what I said.”
Despite everything, Marco almost smiled.
Peter continued.
“Next day, he said I was done.”
“And said I ordered it.”
“Yes.”
“Did he threaten you?”
Peter hesitated.
“Not exactly.”
“What does not exactly mean?”
“He told me my son still worked at Carmine’s.”
Dominic understood.
Peter’s son had a family.
A mortgage.
Two children.
Kane did not need to say more.
Dominic looked toward Vincent.
“His son still there?”
“Yes.”
“Give him a raise.”
Peter shook his head immediately.
“No.”
Dominic looked back.
“I don’t want money.”
“What do you want?”
Peter’s eyes hardened.
“For you to understand this isn’t about him sleeping with your fiancée.”
Dominic went still.
Peter reached inside his coat slowly.
Marco tensed.
Peter lifted both hands.
“Phone.”
Dominic nodded.
Peter pulled out an old cell phone.
“There was another night.”
He opened a video.
The image was grainy.
Recorded from the gatehouse camera monitor.
Kane stood outside near the driveway with two men Dominic recognized.
Not friends.
Not employees.
Men tied to a rival crew in New Jersey.
Dominic’s expression changed.
The timestamp was three weeks old.
Peter explained:
“I copied it before Kane had the camera system changed.”
Dominic watched.
Kane shook hands with one man.
Talked.
Then pointed toward the main house.
Marco cursed quietly.
Vincent stopped chewing his gum.
Dominic asked:
“Who are they?”
Vincent answered.
“Sal Vieri’s people.”
Dominic knew.
Everyone knew.
Vieri and Dominic had maintained an uneasy peace for seven years.
No love.
But no open conflict.
“What were they doing here?”
Peter shook his head.
“No idea.”
Dominic watched the video again.
Then noticed something.
Kane pointed toward the driveway.
Not the house.
Then toward the road Dominic normally used when leaving for the airport.
His pulse slowed.
That was always when Dominic became most dangerous.
Not when he got angry.
When he got calm.
Vincent noticed.
“You had trouble in Nevada.”
Dominic looked at him.
“What kind?”
“You didn’t tell me.”
“No.”
Dominic thought about Las Vegas.
Two nights earlier, a car had followed his team from the casino to a private dinner.
They lost it.
Dominic assumed it belonged to press or local surveillance.
Now he wasn’t sure.
“Kane knew my schedule.”
Marco nodded.
“He built it.”
“He knew where I stayed.”
“Yes.”
“Knew when I was returning.”
Marco’s face changed.
“You came back early.”
Dominic looked toward the ceiling.
Upstairs, his daughter was asleep.
He was supposed to return Sunday afternoon.
For her birthday dinner.
Not Friday night.
Kane had expected two more days.
Dominic turned to Peter.
“Did you hear anything that night?”
Peter thought.
“One thing.”
“What?”
“One of Vieri’s guys asked about Sunday.”
Dominic’s pulse changed.
“What exactly?”
Peter swallowed.
“He said, ‘You sure he’ll be alone?’”
Nobody spoke.
Vincent’s expression hardened.
Dominic asked:
“And Kane?”
Peter looked him in the eye.
“He said, ‘His daughter’s party is that afternoon. He’ll leave the house right after.’”
Dominic stood completely still.
Emma’s birthday.
Sunday.
The party Camille had planned.
A party Dominic had promised he would attend.
Kane knew that after cake Dominic was supposed to go into Manhattan for a meeting.
Kane himself had arranged it.
Vincent walked toward the door.
“I’ll handle him.”
Dominic’s voice stopped him.
“No.”
Vincent turned.
“No?”
“No one touches Kane.”
“Dominic.”
“My daughter is upstairs.”
“He planned—”
“I know what he planned.”
Dominic’s voice remained calm.
“And I will deal with it.”
He looked toward Isabella’s old chair.
“But not the way he expects.”
At four in the morning, Dominic finally went upstairs.
Emma was sleeping in the center of his bed.
Maria sat in the chair beside her.
Dominic entered quietly.
Maria stood.
“She woke up once.”
“What did she say?”
Maria hesitated.
Dominic already knew he would hate the answer.
“She asked whether you were angry she told you about Mr. Kane.”
Dominic closed his eyes.
Of course she had.
He sat on the edge of the bed.
Emma stirred.
“Daddy?”
“I’m here.”
Her eyes opened slightly.
“Did I get Anthony in trouble?”
Dominic looked at her small face.
“No.”
“But—”
“Anthony got Anthony in trouble.”
Emma considered that.
Then:
“Is Camille mad?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is Ava?”
“I don’t know.”
Emma pulled the blanket closer.
“I don’t want Ava to lose her room.”
Dominic stared at her.
Even now.
After four nights on towels.
His daughter was worried that another girl might lose a bedroom.
“Emma.”
“Yeah?”
“You are allowed to be angry.”
She looked confused.
“At Ava?”
“At anyone.”
Her eyes filled.
“Camille says angry girls grow up mean.”
Dominic’s face changed.
He brushed hair from Emma’s forehead.
“Camille says too much.”
That made Emma smile faintly.
Then she looked toward the door.
“Can I ask something?”
“Anything.”
“If you marry Camille…”
Dominic waited.
“Do I still get to live here?”
His chest tightened so hard he almost couldn’t breathe.
He looked at the nine-year-old girl Isabella had trusted him to raise.
Then at the sweatshirt she was still using as a blanket.
“Emma.”
He lowered his voice.
“There is no version of my life where you have to ask permission to be my daughter.”
Her eyes filled.
“Okay.”
“And nobody is marrying anyone right now.”
She processed that.
Then scooted toward one side of the bed.
“You can sleep here.”
Dominic looked at the narrow space.
“That is approximately six inches.”
“You’re skinny.”
“No one has ever accused me of that.”
Emma smiled.
Then closed her eyes.
Dominic lay beside her anyway.
At 4:26 in the morning, one of the most feared men in New York stared at the ceiling while his daughter slept with one hand gripping his shirt.
Downstairs, Anthony Kane sat under guard.
Across the hall, Camille was awake.
And somewhere in New Jersey, men who expected Dominic Moretti to follow his usual Sunday schedule had no idea he was already home.
For the first time in twelve years—
May you like
Anthony Kane had no idea what Dominic would do next.
---
