Chapter 8 - The Interrogation in the West WingTwo weeks later, on a crisp, sunlit Saturday afternoon, Damian and I brought Celia and Julian to the historic cemetery overlooking the harbor in the North End.
The cemetery was quiet, peaceful, and bathed in golden autumn light that filtered through the ancient oak trees.
We walked down a secluded gravel path until we reached a beautiful, shaded plot near the water’s edge.
Standing beneath a towering granite cross was the newly erected headstone of Marco Rossi:
Marco Rossi (1985–2011) — Master Rigger, A Father of Honor.
Fresh bouquets of white calla lilies, red roses, and fragrant sweet basil rested at the base of the stone.
Julian knelt beside his father’s headstone, resting his hand on the carved granite, his silver-gray eyes bright with tears.
“I’m here, Dad,” Julian whispered, his voice steady and proud. “I know who I am now.”
Celia knelt beside her son, gently running her fingers over the engraved letters of Marco’s name.
“You don't have to worry anymore, Marco,” she whispered softly. “Our boy is safe. Our family is whole.”
Damian stood behind them, his large, warm hand resting gently on Julian’s shoulder, his presence an immovable mountain of protection.
“Your father was a lion, Julian,” Damian said softly, his voice carrying clearly across the quiet cemetery. “He stood against forty armed men to protect your mother. You carry the blood of two sovereigns.”
He reached into his pocket and produced the antique silver rattle that Roberto had retrieved from the south attic safe.
He handed it to Julian.
The boy held the cool silver in his hands, tracing his birth date engraved on the base, tears of pure, unadulterated peace spilling down his cheeks.
Damian turned toward me, his slate-gray eyes shining with an emotion so vast, so profound, that words were entirely unnecessary.
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He reached into his coat pocket and produced an antique velvet jeweler’s box lined with white silk.
My heart began to hammer against my ribs like a trapped bird.
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