Chapter 4 - The House Cleans Itself
Ten minutes later, the study door opened with a sharp click.
Lorenzo Bellini stepped inside, his expression grim and professional. He looked at Marcus Vane, who was slumped over the desk, gasping and retching into a wastebasket while clutching his throat in absolute panic, though the butter he had been forced to taste at knifepoint was harmless—we hadn't poisoned him back; we simply let his own guilt do the choking for us.
"Clean him up, Lorenzo," I said coldly, wiping my hands with a linen handkerchief and tossing it onto the desk. "Ship Marcus and Isabella both out on the midnight freighter to South America. Let them figure out how to build an empire from a cargo hold. If either of them ever sets foot in Providence again, feed them to the fish."
"Consider it done, Boss," Lorenzo nodded, signaling two guards who hauled the weeping, broken accountant out of the study by his arms.
The heavy doors clicked shut, plunging the room back into a heavy, suffocating quiet.
I stood alone in the dim light of the desk lamp. The porcelain butter dish sat empty, its dove-shaped lid slightly askew. The game was over. The traitors were gone. The wedding was canceled before the invitations were even printed.
For the first time in three years, the Romano estate felt entirely mine again. Not shared, not compromised, not undermined by snakes hiding behind jasmine perfume and silk robes.
A soft tap sounded at the door.
I turned.
Pushing the heavy mahogany door open just a few inches was a small head of dark curls. Emma Bennett peered into the room, her big, solemn eyes scanning the dark corners before landing on me. In her arms, she held Rosie, the patched rag doll with the button eye.
"Sir?" she whispered, her voice timid. "Is the bad lady gone?"
I looked at the little girl—the six-year-old maid's daughter who had seen what a roomful of armed capos and high-priced lawyers had missed. She didn't belong in this world of blood, ledgers, and betrayal. But she had saved my life.
A rare, genuine softening touched my chest—something I hadn't felt since my mother died when I was a boy.
I walked around the desk, knelt down on one knee so I was at eye level with her, and offered a faint, tired smile.
"Yes, Emma," I said softly. "The bad lady is gone. And she's never coming back."
Emma let out a long, shaky sigh of relief, clutching her doll a little tighter. "Can I... can I go finish wiping the dining room table now?"
I stood up, offering her my hand—not as a Don commanding a servant, but as a man acknowledging an equal.
"No, Emma," I said, taking her tiny, warm hand in mine. "You've done enough work for today. Come with me to the kitchen. Rosa made fresh pancakes this morning, and this time... there's no poison in the butter."
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Emma looked up at me, a shy, hesitant smile finally breaking across her small face.
As we walked down the grand marble hallway together toward the morning sun streaming through the tall estate windows, the heavy ghosts of Federal Hill seemed to step aside. The empire was safe. And for the first time in a very long time, I wasn't dining alone.
