Chapter 5 - The Sister in the Scullery ApronBefore walking down to the dining hall, Dante returned to the master suite.
Clara was resting comfortably beneath the cashmere blankets, her breathing deep and even, the intravenous fluids having restored a healthy, rosy color to her cheeks.
Mrs. Higgins, the elderly head housekeeper who had served Donna Carmela thirty years ago, sat beside the bed, weeping softly as she folded an exquisite ivory silk maternity dress across her lap.
“She is the image of her grandmother, Dante,” Mrs. Higgins whispered, looking up through tear-filled eyes. “I held her when she was an infant. The moment she walked into this room, the shadows left this house.”
“She will never carry an iron bucket again, Mrs. Higgins,” Dante replied softly.
He looked down at Clara.
He reached into his pocket and placed the antique platinum crowned eagle brooch on the nightstand, right beside her glass of water.
“When she wakes, dress her in the ivory silk,” Dante instructed. “Fasten the brooch over her heart. She will enter the grand hall as the true Donna of this empire.”
“At once, Don Dante,” the old woman nodded with fierce, unyielding pride.
Dante turned on his heel, stepping into the outer gallery where Marco and six tactical operators stood waiting in silent formation.
“Open the dining room doors,” Dante commanded.
“Yes, boss.”
The heavy double mahogany doors of the grand banquet hall swung inward with a concussive boom that echoed through the high ceilings.
Inside, thirty district capos, municipal judges, and shipping magnates sat around a forty-foot mahogany table laden with vintage scotch, crystal candelabras, and roasted meats.
At the head of the southern table sat Don Arthur Sterling.
Sixty-eight years old, silver hair impeccably slicked back, wearing an eight-thousand-dollar bespoke dinner suit, his gold signet ring clicking arrogantly against his crystal glass.
“Dante!” Arthur boomed, raising his glass with an expansive smile. “We were beginning to wonder if the winter storm had trapped you in the wine cellar! Where is Genevieve? We are ready to sign the harbor merger contracts!”
Dante walked down the center aisle, his heavy boots clicking rhythmically against the limestone tiles.
He didn't return the smile. He didn't take his seat.
He stopped two feet in front of Arthur Sterling.
Marco stepped forward, slamming the heavy iron dispatch box onto the white damask cloth directly between Arthur’s plate and his crystal glass.
The plates rattled. Wine sloshed over the linen.
Arthur’s smile tightened at the corners, a flicker of cold calculation passing across his patrician brow.
“What is this melodrama, Dante? An early wedding gift?”
Dante reached into his vest, pulled out the scorched 2002 logistics manifest, and laid it flat before the older man.
“Three thousand gallons of industrial naptha, Arthur,” Dante whispered, his voice quiet enough that every capo along the table stopped talking instantly.
The color began to drain from Arthur Sterling’s face.
“Do you remember the serial numbers?” Dante asked.
May you like
Arthur didn't move. He didn't speak. But his hand holding the crystal glass began to tremble by an imperceptible fraction.
“Or should I ask Genevieve?” Dante continued. “She is currently in the lower holding vaults, waiting to explain why my grandmother’s ruby brooch was found in the hem of my living sister.”
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