Chapter 11 - The Inheritance of ShadowsThree months had passed since the night Victor Salvatore’s betrayal went up in smoke at the docks, and the Moretti syndicate had undergone a ruthless, thorough cleansing.
The bodies of the Calderon cartel’s leadership had long since been buried in unmarked graves, and Marco was currently spending his life in a maximum-security prison cell three hundred miles inland—isolated from the world, his name permanently scrubbed from the family registry.
I sat behind my executive mahogany desk in the main study, reviewing the quarterly ledger reports. The numbers were clean. The territories were secure. Yet, a strange, unfamiliar quiet hung over the estate.
A gentle knock rattled the heavy oak door.
“Come in,” I called out.
Gabriel pushed the door open, stepping into the room with a bulky manila envelope tucked under his arm. His face carried a rare, hesitant expression.
“Boss, courier delivery just arrived from the Tuscana safehouse,” Gabriel said, placing the envelope squarely in the center of my desk.
I paused, setting my gold fountain pen down. “From Elena?”
“Not exactly,” Gabriel replied, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “It’s from Sophia. She insisted the courier deliver it directly into my hands before sunrise.”
Curiosity stirred in my chest—a sensation I hadn't felt often in my decades at the top. I slid my fingers under the brown clasp, unwrapped the string, and tipped the envelope upside down.
Out slid a thick stack of fresh, colorful construction paper.
Right on top was a drawing executed in bright blue and yellow crayons. It depicted the grand gates of our Tuscana villa, flanked by two towering palm trees. But what caught my eye wasn't the scenery; it was the tiny figure standing by the security checkpoint.
A small girl in a yellow sweater, holding a tiny walkie-talkie in one hand and a miniature notebook in the other.
And in the corner, written in clumsy, earnest five-year-old handwriting:
“The blue car is parking too long by the gate. Tell Mr. Gabriel.”
I stared at the crayon drawing, my breath catching in my throat. I looked up at Gabriel, whose amusement had instantly vanished, replaced by a cold, sharp alertness.
“When was this drawn?” I asked, my voice dropping into that quiet, dangerous register.
May you like
“Yesterday afternoon, boss,” Gabriel said, his hand sliding instinctively toward his sidearm.
“Run a perimeter check on the Tuscana safehouse immediately,” I ordered, standing up so fast my leather chair scraped hard against the Persian rug. “And check the security logs for the southern access road.”
