Chapter 10 - Bloodlines of the Atlantic Shore
Two weeks later, on a crisp, sunlit Saturday afternoon, Marco, my mother, and I brought fresh white magnolias to the historic cemetery on the bluffs overlooking the ocean.
The cemetery was quiet, peaceful, and bathed in golden autumn light that filtered through the ancient maritime pines.
We walked down a secluded gravel path until we reached a beautiful, shaded plot surrounded by blooming white hydrangeas and fragrant rosemary bushes.
Standing beneath a towering granite cross was the headstone of Marco’s father, Don Antonio Santoro:
Antonio Santoro (1950–2020) — Sovereign of the Coast, A Father of Honor.
Fresh bouquets of white calla lilies, red roses, and fragrant sweet basil rested at the base of the stone.
Marco knelt beside his father’s headstone, resting his hand on the carved granite, his gray eyes bright with tears of profound, eternal peace.
“We brought the truth home, Dad,” Marco whispered softly through his tears. “The traitors are broken. The boardwalk is clean. The shadows are gone forever.”
I stepped forward, kneeling beside him on the gravel path, resting my hand respectfully on the stone.
“Your son carries your honor, Don Antonio,” I said softly, my voice carrying clearly across the quiet churchyard. “He is the sovereign of our fleet. In this house, your courage will never be forgotten.”
My mother knelt beside us, placing a small glass bottle of fresh holy water beside the lilies on the stone.
“Thank you, Antonio,” my mother murmured. “We will protect the family forever.”
Marco stood up, pulling my mother and me into his arms, wrapping his heavy wool overcoat around both of us, shielding us from the ocean wind.
He reached into his pocket and produced an antique silver pocket watch that had belonged to his grandfather, sliding the chain into my palm.
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“Our family is whole, Clara. The water will never rise above our heads.”
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