Chapter 9 - The Legacy
By the following winter, the Castellano estate in Bloomfield Hills was no longer a cold, dark fortress.
The heavy oak doors were often left unlatched during the day. The grand hall smelled of fresh pine, lemon oil, and Beatrice’s famous beef stew.
Marco Vance still stood guard at the main gate, but now he carried a pocket full of dog treats for Beatrice’s one-eyed cat, who had taken a liking to sleeping on the hood of the Escalade.
On a quiet Sunday afternoon, snow fell softly over the estate gardens.
In the sunroom, a small white wooden crib sat near the window, warmed by the light of the stone fireplace.
Inside the crib slept a four-month-old baby girl with a thick tuft of dark hair and bright, startlingly blue eyes.
Her name was Clara—named after Beatrice’s mother.
Leonardo sat in a rocking chair beside the crib, holding a small baby bottle in his giant, calloused hand. He was wearing a soft gray sweater, his sleeves rolled up, revealing the dragon tattoos on his forearms.
He was singing a low, gravelly Italian lullaby—the same one his mother had sung to him in Palermo forty years ago.
Beatrice walked into the room carrying a tray of hot tea.
She wore comfortable flannel trousers, a heavy green sweater, and her hair tied back in her usual messy bun. She set the tray on the side table and stood behind Leonardo’s chair, resting her hands on his broad shoulders.
Leonardo reached up, covering her fingers with his.
"She looks like you," he whispered, looking down at the sleeping child. "She has your chin. Poor girl is going to be as stubborn as a mule."
"She has your eyes," Beatrice replied softly, leaning down to rest her chin on the top of his head. "Which means she’s going to spend her whole life making people do what she wants."
Leonardo let out a quiet laugh. He reached up, pulled Beatrice around the chair, and drew her onto his lap.
She settled against his chest—heavy, warm, and entirely secure in the arms of the man who had once terrified an entire city.
"Do you ever miss it?" he asked softly, looking out at the snow falling over the woods. "The crazy shifts? The blood? The quiet house in Ferndale?"
Beatrice looked down at her hands—broad, strong hands that had saved hundreds of lives, digged bullets out of mob bosses, and held her daughter for the first time four months ago.
She raised her hand and pressed her thumb gently against the scar on his chest beneath his sweater.
"I have everything I want right here, Blue Eyes," she said.
Leonardo smiled—a real, whole, beautiful smile that reached all the way to his clear blue eyes.
He leaned up and kissed her—a long, slow, quiet kiss that sounded like home.
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Outside, the storm raged over the frozen streets of Detroit.
Inside, the house was warm, the fire was bright, and the monster who ruled the city lay completely defeated, held fast in the arms of the nurse who had refused to let him die.
