The little girl arrived at the iron gates of Bellweather Manor during the worst rainstorm Hudson County had seen all autumn.

The morning light broke through the river mist in sharp, crystalline shafts of pale gold, illuminating the great lawns of Bellweather Manor.

Down in the formal courtyard, three black SUVs were idling, their exhausts curling into the crisp autumn air. Security men in dark wool coats stood near the iron gates, checking the credentials of every delivery vehicle with an intensity that had not been seen at the estate in a decade.

Inside the glass-walled conservatory on the eastern wing of the house, Mila sat on a wicker chaise lounge, wrapped in a fresh wool cardigan Mrs. Gable had fetched from the town boutiques at seven in the morning. Beside her sat a plate of warm croissants, strawberry preserves, and a tall glass of whole milk.

Dominic sat across from her, a copy of the *Wall Street Journal* folded across his knees, untouched.

“Do you know what a garden is, Mila?” the Don asked.

Mila wiped a crumb from her cheek with the back of her sleeve. “It’s dirt with flowers that don't come in plastic.”

“That is an accurate description,” Dominic said, nodding approvingly. “This house has three gardens. One for roses, one for herbs, and one that has no flowers at all—only stone paths and boxwood hedges where a person can think when the world is too loud.”

Mila looked through the arched glass toward the misty lawn. “Mommy had a garden in an egg carton.”

Luca, who had just entered the conservatory carrying a tray of fresh tea, paused mid-stride. “In an egg carton?”

Mila looked up, her slate-gray eyes bright in the morning sun. “We took the shells and put dirt in them. Then we put little black seeds inside and kept them on the window above the sink. Mommy said if you give them enough water, they grow even if they don't have a whole yard.”

She looked down at her glass of milk.

“Three of them turned into green leaves,” she added quietly. “Then the heat went off in the winter and they froze. Mommy cried that day. She said she couldn't even keep the leaves warm.”

Luca set the tea tray down with a hand that shook slightly. He sat on the edge of the chaise beside her, taking her small hand into his own.

“Mila,” Luca said.

She turned to look at him. “Yes?”

“The leaves won't freeze here,” he said. “Never again. Do you understand me? You can plant an entire field of them. You can plant a thousand egg cartons. The heat will never go off.”

Mila studied his face with that uncanny, unblinking seriousness that seemed too heavy for a four-year-old child. She reached out with her small left hand and touched the right side of his ribcage, right where the scar from the Alfa Romeo crash lay beneath his starched shirt.

“Does it hurt today?” she asked.

Luca swallowed. “No. Not today.”

“Good,” she said, satisfied. “Mommy said when your ribs hurt, you get sad, and when you get sad, you make everyone go away.”

Dominic watched them from across the low table, his dark eyes softening in a way that would have astonished every captain, soldier, and associate from Newark to Manhattan.

“Luca,” Dominic said softly.

Luca looked up.

“Sophie is at the north gate,” the patriarch said.

Luca stiffened. “I told Marco—”

“Marco is gone,” Dominic interrupted. “His car passed through the turnpike toll plaza forty minutes ago, heading south toward the Delaware Memorial Bridge. Vanessa is with him. But Sophie did not go with them.”

Luca frowned. “She’s seventeen. She has nowhere else to go.”

“She refused to board the car,” Dominic said, tapping his finger against the folded newspaper. “Collins found her sitting on her luggage by the gatehouse in the rain. She asked to see you. Not Marco. You.”

Luca looked down at Mila. The girl had returned to her croissant, carefully separating the flaky layers with small, surgical precision, feeding a tiny flake to Barnaby the rabbit.

“Wait here with your grandfather,” Luca said.

Mila looked up, chewing slowly. “Is Mr. Snow Rabbit going to read the paper to me?”

Dominic picked up the *Wall Street Journal*. “I will read you the commodities index, little bird. We will discuss the price of pork bellies and winter wheat.”

Mila nodded, entirely unperturbed. “I like wheat. It makes bread.”

Dominic smiled—a real, broad smile that transformed his weathered face completely. “Indeed it does.”