Chapter 10 - The Ledger Balanced
Three years later.
The summer sun over Long Island was hot enough to turn the salt air into a sweet, thick perfume that smelled of pine needles and warm sand.
The house in Long Island—the old mansion with the white pillars that Dominic had abandoned after the ferry disaster—was no longer empty. The black marble headstone in Queens had been removed by a city crane six months ago, replaced by a small rose garden where the boys currently played with a large golden retriever that answered to the name of 'Wolf'.
"Six, seven, eight..."
Marco was lining up sea shells along the edge of the stone terrace, his small hands brown from a summer spent in the sun. He was six now, his first school uniform hanging in the closet upstairs, his left-hand dominant reach perfectly adapted to writing his name in cursive.
Luca was sitting on a low wicker bench beside Dominic, his head buried in a large book about corporate law. Dominic had a pair of reading glasses on his nose, his dark hair touched with silver at the temples, his left arm wrapped around Luca’s shoulders as he pointed to a paragraph on the page.
"See that line, Lu?" Dominic asked, his voice softer than it had ever been in Manhattan. "That’s the clause that keeps the shipping terminal legal. If anyone tries to change the port authority filing, the whole trust reverts to your mother’s account."
"And then we buy the trucks?" Luca asked.
"Then we buy the trucks," Dominic smiled, his scarred jaw moving without any trace of the old tension.
I walked out of the double doors of the kitchen, carrying a tray with two tall glasses of lemonade and a small bowl of strawberries for Raphael, who was currently trying to climb the lowest branch of the old oak tree by the gate.
My dress was white linen, light and clean, without any corporate folders or secret thumb drives hidden in the lining. My firm in Manhattan was run by a junior partner now; my only client was the Verano Charitable Foundation, which spent five million dollars a year building daycares and after-school centers in the South Side of Chicago and Newark.
The Rosetti family didn't exist anymore. The commission had divided the New Jersey territories among the old capos who preferred stability to war, and the name Verano was now synonymous with the largest legal maritime logistics firm on the Eastern seaboard.
Dominic stood up as I set the tray down on the table. He took off his reading glasses, his gray eyes locking onto mine with that old, possessive warmth that had once terrified me, but now felt like the only anchor I had ever needed.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, silver object.
It wasn't a gun. It was the salad fork from table twelve—the one he had bent with his thumb three years ago in the ninety-one-floor restaurant above the city. He had taken it to a silversmith in Brooklyn, who had straightened the prongs and engraved five letters into the handle: ELENA.
"The ledger is balanced, my love," Dominic whispered, his long fingers closing over mine as he placed the silver piece in my palm.
"I checked the files this morning, Mr. Verano," I said, a small, knowing smile touching my lips as Raphael finally cleared the branch and shouted for his brothers to look at him. "There are no outstanding balances."
May you like
Dominic pulled me closer to his chest, his arms wrapping around my waist until the smell of him—sandalwood, sun, and the clean wool of his shirt—filled my world completely.
"Then let’s go watch the boys," he said, his chin resting against my hair as the sun began to drop behind the blue line of the Atlantic. "They're counting the ships, and Marco says he wants to build a bigger dock."
