Chapter 7 - The Cleansing of the Estate
The work began before the police sirens could even be heard from the state highway three miles away.
In our world, the police did not arrive at the Moretti estate with search warrants and crime scene tape; they arrived forty minutes after the call, their cruisers parking at the end of the long driveway to redirect traffic while three unmarked black panel vans from a commercial cleaning firm in Queens backed up to the service entrance.
The men in the gray coveralls did not ask questions.
They rolled up the Persian rugs that were soaked with blood and sprinkler water, carrying them out to an incinerator truck parked behind the stables. They cut away the sections of damaged oak parquet with circular saws that whined through the midnight silence, replacing the floorboards with seasoned lumber kept in the estate’s carpenter shop for precisely this purpose.
By four in the morning, the bodies of the three northern gunmen had been loaded into the refrigeration unit of a seafood transport truck bound for an industrial rendering plant in New Jersey.
The dining room had been gutted, scrubbed with lye and pine oil, and left with the windows open to the salt wind to clear the stench of gunpowder.
I sat on the low stone wall of the rose terrace, wrapped in a heavy wool overcoat Dante had given me from the hall closet. My hands were clean now, but beneath my fingernails I could still smell the saffron and the copper.
The rain had finally stopped.
Over the sound, the clouds were breaking into long, indigo ribs, revealing a sliver of cold autumn moon that turned the waves to quicksilver.
The terrace door clicked open.
Dante walked out, carrying two heavy mugs of black coffee. He had changed into a clean gray sweater and dark corduroys. His left arm was wrapped in fresh white bandages from wrist to elbow, but he carried himself with that same unshakeable, monumental stillness.
He handed me a mug.
I took it with both hands, letting the steam warm my face.
"Julian?" I asked.
"The bricklayers finished an hour ago," Dante said, looking out toward the dark water. "The wall is five feet thick. Reinforced with hydraulic cement. There is no door anymore."
A shiver ran down my spine—not of horror, but of a strange, hollow finality.
"The guests?"
"They are on their way back to their homes," Dante said. "Salvatore Vane survived the surgery on his nose. He has signed over his family’s shares in the Montreal terminal to Marco. By noon, the northern route belongs to this house."
He leaned his hip against the stone balustrade, looking down at me with those gray, unreadable eyes.
"You didn't drop the tray," he said.
"If I dropped the tray," I replied, staring into the black coffee, "they would have killed you. And if they killed you, who was going to keep the door locked for Sophie?"
A faint, almost imperceptible softening touched the corners of Dante’s mouth. It wasn't a smile—Dante Moretti did not smile—but it was the first time I had seen the tension leave the muscles around his temples.
"Your husband was a brave man, Elena," he said quietly. "He was not smart about the world, but he was brave."
"He was terrified," I said, looking up at him. "He spent three years looking over his shoulder every time a delivery van backed into the alley. He didn't want to be brave, Dante. He wanted to be invisible."
"No one is invisible," Dante said, his voice dropping into that dark, rhythmic cadence. "We are only waiting for our turn at the table."
From the path leading to the carriage house, a heavy, rhythmic trotting sound approached over the gravel.
Bruno appeared around the corner of the boxwoods.
The dog had been washed; the pink foam was gone from his jowls, his black coat gleaming like polished coal in the moonlight. He did not run. He walked with the heavy, exhausted dignity of an old soldier returning from a long campaign.
He reached the terrace steps, climbed them slowly, and sat down between my knees, resting his enormous scarred head directly in my lap.
I set my coffee mug on the wall and buried my fingers in the thick folds of skin around his neck.
The dog sighed—a deep, gusting exhalation that rattled his ribs—and closed his amber eyes.
"He likes you," Dante observed.
"He likes Sophie," I corrected.
"The dog doesn't distinguish between the two of you," Dante said. "Neither do I."
I looked up at him, my breath catching in my throat.
Dante was not looking at the water now. He was looking at me, his gaze so direct, so stripped of pretense, that it felt like an examination of my soul.
"The carriage house is compromised," Dante said, his voice level, professional, yet carrying an undercurrent that made my pulse jump. "The foundations are unstable from the excavations Julian made. It will be torn down on Monday."
"Where do we go?" I asked, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Dante, I have ninety-three dollars in my checking account. I can't take Sophie to an apartment in the city. If Julian’s people in Montreal—"
"You don't go to the city," Dante interrupted.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a heavy brass key—not the master key to the service wing, but an old, ornate key with a crest stamped into the bow.
"The western wing of the main house," Dante said, holding the key out toward me. "The rooms that belonged to my sister before she married. It has three bedrooms, a private terrace, and its own staircase to the gardens."
I stared at the key in his palm.
"I am a maid, Dante," I whispered.
"You were a maid yesterday," Dante said softly. "Tonight you broke the nose of a Montreal boss with a silver tureen and held this house together while the windows came down. My mother is seventy-two. She needs someone who understands how to manage the staff without asking for permission."
May you like
He stepped closer, his shadow falling over me and the dog, blotting out the cold light of the moon.
"And Sophie," Dante added, "needs to grow up in a house where the doors stay locked from the inside."
