Chapter 8 - The Secret Behind the Montreal ShippersBy midnight, the grand dining pavilion had been cleared of the council delegates, the shattered crystal, and the spilled blood.
Julian Delacroix and his daughter had been handed over to a specialized federal task force led by Assistant US Attorney Marcus Vance—a man who had spent seven years attempting to pierce the Delacroix family’s corporate tax shields. With the surveillance footage from Vault Seven, the monkshood toxicological reports, and the confiscated locket, the federal indictment was unassailable.
The Montreal syndicate was broken.
Its assets were absorbed into a joint maritime trust overseen by the remaining four families, ending thirty years of cross-border smuggling and extortion.
In the master study on the second floor, a fire crackled quietly in the granite hearth.
I sat on the velvet sofa, having changed out of the heavy silk gown into a soft, warm cashmere sweater and loose wool trousers. My fiberglass cast was propped on a soft pillow, the dull ache in my arm finally soothed by the pain medication Dr. Rossi had provided.
Nero lay stretched out across the rug, snoring softly, his massive paws twitching in a dream.
The double doors opened, and Dante walked in.
He had removed his tuxedo jacket and bow tie, the top buttons of his black dress shirt undone, his sleeves rolled up to reveal his scarred forearms. He carried two porcelain mugs of hot peppermint tea on a small silver tray.
He set the tray on the coffee table, pulled a leather armchair over, and sat down opposite me.
“Peppermint?” I asked softly, a faint smile touching my lips.
“My mother’s favorite,” Dante said, handing a mug to my uninjured left hand. “She always said peppermint kept a person’s mind sharp when the wolves were howling outside the door.”
I took a sip of the warm, aromatic tea. It chased away the lingering cold that had settled into my bones during the dinner.
“How are you feeling, Clara?” he asked, his dark gray eyes studying my face with an intensity that made my pulse flutter.
“Tired, Mr. Caruso,” I answered honestly. “I feel like I've lived three lifetimes in the last twelve hours.”
“Call me Dante.”
I looked up, meeting his gaze. “Sir?”
“You called me Mr. Caruso when you were an employee on this estate,” Dante said quietly, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You are not an employee anymore, Clara.”
My heart skipped a beat. A cold wave of anxiety washed over me.
“Are you dismissing me?”
A low, rumbling chuckle broke from Dante’s chest—a warm, rich sound I had never heard from him before.
“Dismissing you?” he repeated, shaking his head. “I have fifty capos who would rather jump into the Hudson River than speak a single word of truth to my face. And you stood in my greenhouse with broken bones and told me my fiancée was a liar.”
He reached across the space between us, his large, warm hand gently covering my uninjured left fingers.
“I am appointing you the Executive Director of the Maria Caruso Botanical and Pediatric Trust.”
I stared at him, completely speechless. “What?”
“My mother owned four hundred acres of historic wetlands and nursery conservatories along the north shore,” Dante explained. “The Delacroix family wanted to pave it into industrial container yards. Starting tomorrow, the land is being transferred into a permanent educational foundation for children undergoing long-term medical treatments.”
His thumb stroked the back of my hand with breathtaking tenderness.
“Your brother Leo is being moved to the private wing of the Mount Sinai Children’s Pavilion in the morning. His specialized care is funded for life under the trust.”
Tears welled in my eyes, spilling over my lashes before I could stop them.
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“Dante... I can't accept that. That's millions of dollars. I was just tending your flowers.”
“You didn't just tend my flowers, Clara,” Dante whispered, his voice thick with an emotion so deep it seemed to pull the breath from the room. “You guarded my mother’s soul when everyone else had forgotten her.”
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