Chapter 9 - Unfinished BusinessTwo weeks later, the autumn wind began to strip the last amber leaves from the ancient oaks lining the private drive of the Ashworth estate.
Julian stood on the stone terrace, adjusting the cuffs of his woolen overcoat, watching a black town car idle near the main gates.
Camille stood a few paces behind him, holding a small canvas duffel bag. Elsie was clinging to her leg, clutching her broken green crayon in one hand while using the other to stroke the soft fur of Rex’s head as the Malinois sat patiently beside them.
"The flight to Nashville leaves at four," Julian said, his voice unusually low. "The house in Tennessee is fully staffed. Security detail is vetted by Salvatore himself. No one will ever find you there."
Camille stopped stroking the dog's head. She looked up at Julian, her dark eyes steady and unreadable. "You aren't coming with us?"
Julian turned around, his face a mask of cold composure, though something flickered briefly in the depths of his gray eyes. "An empire doesn't run itself, Camille. There are ports to oversee, capos to keep in line, and accounts to settle in Europe. My place is here."
"Your place is wherever you choose to stop looking over your shoulder, Julian," she said quietly.
Julian didn't answer. He walked over, knelt down on one knee in front of Elsie, and gently touched the top of the little girl's dark curls.
"Be good to your mother, sweetheart," Julian murmured. "And tell Rex he's off duty."
Elsie looked up at him, her dark, level gaze mirroring her mother's with uncanny precision. She reached out, grabbed Julian’s thumb with her small, sticky fingers, and solemnly pressed the stub of her broken green crayon into his palm.
"You keep it," she whispered. "It protects against the vinegar smell."
Julian looked down at the tiny green wax stub in his hand. A slow, genuine smile—the first one that reached his eyes in years—touched his mouth.
"Thank you, Elsie," he said softly, closing his fist around it. "I'll take good care of it."
Camille turned toward the car, pulling the duffel bag over her shoulder. She paused at the door of the town car, looking back across the gravel courtyard one last time.
"The door is always unlocked, Julian," she said softly. "Even for men who talk to dogs."
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Then she got into the car.
The vehicle turned smoothly on the gravel, moved down the long drive, and disappeared into the autumn fog, leaving behind an empty courtyard, a massive Belgian Malinois, and a mafia boss holding a broken green crayon.
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