Chapter 3 - The GuesthouseThe east garden had once belonged to Allessandro’s mother.
Before she died, she had grown lavender there. White roses. Rosemary that climbed the stone wall and filled the air after rain. Now the garden was trimmed by hired men who did not know her name. Beautiful, controlled, and dead in every way that mattered.
Allessandro crossed it with Caleb two steps behind him.
Neither man spoke.
The guesthouse stood beyond the hedges, small compared with the estate but large enough for a family. Its white paint had begun to peel around the shutters. The windows were dark.
Except one.
A curtain moved.
Caleb saw it too.
His hand slid beneath his jacket.
Allessandro lifted two fingers.
Wait.
They approached the side door.
It was unlocked.
That alone was enough.
Nothing on Romano property was left unlocked unless someone wanted it found or someone had been careless.
Carelessness killed more criminals than courage ever did.
Inside, the guesthouse smelled of dust, damp wood, and expensive cigarette smoke.
Not one of his men smoked that brand.
Caleb moved through the front room first. Empty. A sheet covered the sofa. Another covered the piano his mother had once played when Allessandro was small enough to believe music meant safety.
On a small table near the window sat a glass.
Lipstick on the rim.
Isabella’s shade.
Beside it lay a matchbook from The Meridian Club, a private place downtown where men with clean hands paid dirty money to speak freely.
Allessandro picked it up.
Inside, someone had written a time.
12:30.
Caleb checked the bedroom, then returned.
“No one inside.”
Allessandro looked at the dusty floor.
“Someone was.”
There were footprints near the rear door. Two sets. One narrow heel. One larger, heavier shoe.
A man.
Caleb crouched. “Recent.”
Allessandro’s face hardened.
“Find the cameras.”
“They were disabled.”
He knew before Caleb said it.
The east garden cameras had gone dark for seven minutes the night before. A maintenance glitch, according to the morning report. Seven minutes at 12:31.
The matchbook time was 12:30.
Allessandro slipped it into his pocket.
“Someone came here after she poisoned the butter.”
“Her father?” Caleb asked.
“No. Vittorio Vale would never risk being seen on my property.”
“Then who?”
Allessandro did not answer.
He walked into the bedroom.
The bed had not been slept in. A drawer in the nightstand sat slightly open. Inside was nothing but an old Bible, a dried lavender sprig, and a yellowed photograph of his mother holding him as a boy.
He almost closed the drawer.
Then he saw the corner of paper beneath the Bible.
A receipt.
Not from a store.
From a pharmacy.
No customer name. Cash payment. The item listed only as “private compound.”
The date was yesterday.
Allessandro stared at it.
The pharmacy address was in Providence.
Vale territory.
Caleb’s phone vibrated.
He answered, listened, then looked at Allessandro.
“Dr. Levin has the first result.”
Allessandro turned.
“And?”
Caleb’s expression darkened.
“The butter tested positive.”
Allessandro felt no surprise.
Only a cold settling.
“What kind?”
“Something that would mimic heart failure. Slow enough to look natural if no one suspected it.”
Caleb hesitated.
“Enough on one slice to kill you before noon.”
The room seemed to narrow.
For one second, Allessandro saw the dining table again. The butter glistening. Emma’s small face. Isabella’s smile at the door.
He had been less than an inch from death.
“Anything else?” he asked.
“The tablet in the napkin matches.”
Allessandro nodded.
“Call Dr. Levin. Tell him to put the report in writing and send copies to three places.”
“Police?”
“No.”
Caleb waited.
Allessandro looked at the old photograph in the drawer.
“My lawyer. My priest. And Senator Walsh.”
Caleb understood.
A legal witness. A moral witness. A political witness.
Not police yet.
Not until Allessandro knew whether the police belonged to Isabella’s father.
They left the guesthouse through the rear door.
The grass behind it sloped toward an old service road. There, partly hidden beneath fallen leaves, were tire marks.
Fresh.
A black car had waited there.
Caleb crouched, studying the track.
“Sedan. Heavy. Not one of ours.”
Allessandro looked toward the road.
“How many men know the blind spot?”
“Five.”
“Names.”
Caleb’s jaw tightened.
“Me. You. Matteo. Old Mr. D’Angelo. And Carlo.”
Carlo.
Allessandro’s uncle.
His father’s younger brother.
Family.
The word had never meant safety.
Allessandro turned back toward the estate.
In an upstairs window, Emma stood looking down at the garden.
Rosie was pressed against the glass.
Marisol stood behind her, one hand on her daughter’s shoulder.
Then Emma lifted one small finger and pointed.
Not at Allessandro.
Not at Caleb.
At the guesthouse chimney.
Caleb saw it a second later.
A scrap of white fabric had caught on the brick.
He climbed the low roof and pulled it free.
Silk.
Cream silk.
From Isabella’s sleeve, maybe.
But something was tucked inside it.
A tiny gold pin.
The kind worn by members of the Vale inner circle.
Allessandro turned it in his palm.
The pin showed a hawk with its talons closed around a rose.
He knew that symbol.
Everyone in Baltimore’s underworld knew it.
It did not belong to Vittorio Vale.
It belonged to Dominic Sorrento.
A man who was supposed to be dead.
Caleb swore under his breath.
Allessandro closed his fist around the pin.
The poisoning had not been Isabella’s desperate act.
It was an opening move.
May you like
A dead man’s family was reaching into his house.
And Isabella had opened the door.
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