Chapter 8 - The Trial of Memory
Six months later — April 2027.
Spring had finally arrived in Boston. The bitter winter winds had given way to warm sunlight, turning the green lawns of the public gardens bright and vibrant. Flowers bloomed along the brick pathways, filling the air with the sweet scent of lilac and fresh earth.
Inside the quiet sanctuary of Saint Jude's Cemetery, the grass around Anthony Santangelo's headstone was freshly cut, neatly trimmed, and free of mud.
A small group stood before the grave beneath the shade of an ancient oak tree.
Vincent stood in a simple navy wool suit, looking healthy and robust, the dark circles under his eyes completely gone. Beside him stood Sarah, wearing an elegant light blue dress, her dark hair shining in the sunlight.
And in the middle stood five-year-old Tommy, dressed in a neat little blazer and khaki pants, holding a massive bundle of fresh yellow daffodils.
Tommy knelt down by the headstone, placing the bright yellow flowers carefully against the marble.
"Hi, Daddy," Tommy said in his clear, confident voice. "Look! I brought you big flowers today! Not the bent ones from the diner street!"
Sarah smiled softly, tears glistening in her eyes as she squeezed Vincent's arm.
Tommy looked up at the headstone, then turned around to face Vincent. "Grandpa says I'm going to start real school in September! A school with a big playground and a swimming pool!"
"That's right, little man," Vincent said, dropping to one knee beside his grandson. He reached out, gently ruffling the boy's dark curls. "And every day after school, your grandfather will be waiting at the gate to pick you up."
"And then can we go to the boat?" Tommy asked excitedly, his eyes lighting up. "The big red boat at Pier 4?"
"Whenever you want," Vincent laughed softly.
A few yards back, near the paved driveway, Marco stood beside a sleek black sedan, wearing a plain grey suit without a weapon in sight. He looked less like a syndicate bodyguard now and more like a trusted family driver. He smiled quietly as he watched the old Don laugh with the boy.
Sarah walked up to Anthony's headstone, placing her palm against the cold marble.
"We did it, Anthony," Sarah whispered into the warm spring breeze. "He's safe. He's loved. He's going to have the life you always wanted for him."
She looked over at Vincent, who was now listening intently as Tommy explained a complicated story about a squirrel he had chased in the backyard that morning.
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Vincent looked up, his golden-brown eyes—the exact same eyes as Anthony's, the exact same eyes as Tommy's—meeting Sarah's.
There was no shadow of the Wolf left in those eyes. No fear, no vengeance, no bloodlust. There was only peace—the quiet, enduring peace of a man who had finally brought his family home from the dark.
