Chapter 11
By afternoon, the estate hummed with a different kind of energy. The armed guards at the perimeter gates still wore tactical vests and carried concealed sidearms, but the atmosphere inside no longer resembled a military bunker. Sunlight poured unobstructed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, catching the dust motes dancing in the air of a corridor that used to be walked in fearful silence.
Emma sat behind her own desk in the adjoining executive office, reviewing corporate tax audits with the ruthless efficiency of a veteran CFO. It baffled rival syndicate bosses when they found out the brilliant logistics mastermind behind Moretti Holdings was the same woman who had once scrubbed baseboards at midnight.
My phone buzzed on the mahogany desk. It was an encrypted line from an old associate in New York—Antonio Moretti.
I clicked accept. “Moretti.”
“Danny,” Antonio’s steady voice came through the speaker. “Heard you cleared out the last of the Outfit’s captains in the Midwest. Congratulations on securing the ports.”
“Takes one to know one, Antonio,” I replied with a dry chuckle, leaning back in my chair. “I hear you’ve traded syndicate wars for real estate development and family life in Manhattan.”
May you like
“Best trade I ever made,” Antonio answered, and through the phone, I could faintly hear the distant, joyful laughter of a little girl in the background. “Turns out a house only becomes a home when you stop locking the doors to the past.”
“I’m starting to figure that out myself,” I murmured, glancing through the glass partition toward Emma, who looked up just then and caught my eye with a soft, knowing smile.
