Chapter 10 - The Sovereign of the Garden
By seven in the evening, the sun had fully set behind the western hills, painting the sky in deep bruises of indigo, violet, and burning copper. The private garden of the Romano estate had transformed from a sunlit sanctuary into an armed fortress.
Two dozen tactical operators in sterile black uniforms were positioned along the perimeter hedges, their night-vision optics scanning the tree line, their weapons held at low-ready. Floodlights illuminated the outer limestone walls, casting long, stark shadows across the river stone paths.
In the center of the garden, on the carved volcanic stone bench, Damian Romano sat once more.
He was still wearing his black silk-blend shirt and charcoal trousers, though the shirt was now buttoned to the collar, his tailored black wool suit coat draped over his broad shoulders against the evening chill. Pinned to the lapel of that coat, gleaming under the warm amber glow of the terrace lanterns, was the antique silver pocket watch.
Its front cover was closed. Its movement was ticking with steady, mechanical authority.
On his lap sat Mia.
She was awake now. The toddler sat upright, her bare feet tucked under the hem of her bright red dress, her large red satin bow slightly crooked in her brown curls. In her hands, she held a warm porcelain cup of whole milk that the estate chef had prepared for her, taking small, careful sips between wide-eyed glances at the flowers surrounding them.
Beside her on the stone slab lay Barnaby the rabbit, its torn seam neatly stitched shut with heavy black nylon thread by the tactical medic who had patched up old Matteo.
Damian did not look at the armed sentries patrolling the hedges. He did not look at the surveillance drones circling silently through the violet clouds above the estate.
He looked down at his niece.
"Mia," he said softly.
The little girl lowered the cup of milk, leaving a tiny white mustache across her upper lip. She looked up at him, her golden-flecked hazel eyes completely clear, completely unafraid of the guns, the shadows, or the fortress around them.
"Damian?" she asked, pronouncing his name with the careful, sweet precision of a child trying on a new word.
Damian felt an ancient, heavy lock shatter in his chest.
For ten years, he had believed that his purpose in this world was to be a sword. He had believed that the Romano name was a curse written in blood, meant to end in an unmarked grave or a federal penitentiary. He had surrounded himself with iron, with stone, with soldiers, believing that the only way to survive was to become colder than the men who wanted him dead.
He had been wrong.
His father hadn't left him an empire to rule. His father had left him an empire to defend her.
Damian reached out his large, scarred hand. With infinite tenderness, his thumb swept across her upper lip, wiping away the drop of milk.
"Are you still cold, little bird?" Damian murmured, a faint, rare smile touching the corners of his stubbled mouth.
Mia shook her head, her light brown curls bouncing in the evening breeze. She set her cup onto the volcanic stone, picked up her repaired rabbit, and leaned her small body against his broad ribs once more, wrapping both of her chubby arms around his muscular forearm.
She looked out at the dark garden, then up into the fierce, unyielding slate-gray eyes of the man who held her.
"No," Mia whispered happily, resting her chin on his watch. "I'm not cold anymore."
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Beyond the hedges, the iron gates of the estate groaned shut, their heavy electronic deadbolts locking into place with a concussive, final thud. The soldiers took their posts. The empire drew its breath.
And in the heart of the garden, beneath the rising stars of New York, Damian Romano closed his arm around the child, ready to burn the world to ash to keep her warm.
