Chapter 14 - The East Wing RestoredBy February, the spring thaw had begun to break the ice across Lake Erie, and the sprawling Mancuso estate in Buffalo was alive with activity—though not the kind of activity it had known for decades.
The heavy iron gates at the perimeter were locked open, the armed enforcers stationed at the lodge replaced by private security contractors whose only job was keeping nosy reporters and remnants of rival syndicates at bay. Inside the main house, the dark, oppressive atmosphere of a mob stronghold was being systematically dismantled.
In the east wing, the heavy damask drapes that had kept Julia’s bedroom in perpetual darkness for five months were finally pulled wide open.
Warm, golden sunlight flooded the room, dancing across the polished parquet floor where the eleven pages of my hasty divorce settlement had once lain scattered like wreckage. I had personally taken those pages, torn them into a thousand confetti-sized pieces, and thrown them into the study fireplace weeks ago.
Julia sat propped up in her velvet armchair, wrapped in a plush cashmere throw, looking out at the budding gardens below. A sleek, ultra-quiet medical oxygen concentrator sat tucked away discreetly in the corner, its thin tubing barely noticeable as it rested comfortably beneath her nose.
Her color had returned, a healthy, soft rose dusting her cheeks, and her smile—the one I had feared I would never see again—lit up her entire face as I walked into the room carrying a small silver tray.
"Breakfast with the enemy," I smiled, setting the tray down on her lap.
She looked down at the poached eggs, toast, and fresh fruit with an amused eyebrow. "Did you cook this yourself, Adriano, or are you trying to poison me a second time?"
"Marta supervised every step," I defended myself, pulling up a chair and sitting beside her. "She threatened to lock me out of the kitchen if I burned the toast."
Julia laughed—a clear, musical sound that made my chest swell with a deep, aching gratitude. She picked up her fork, taking a small bite while I watched her with the fierce, protective intensity of a man who knew how close he had come to losing everything.
"Dr. Vance called this morning," I said quietly.
She paused, looking up at me. "And?"
"And he said your pulmonary function tests showed an eight-percent improvement over the last month," I smiled, taking her hand. "He said if we relocate to a higher-altitude, cleaner climate by spring—somewhere in the Swiss Alps, away from the industrial smog of the Rust Belt—your lungs will continue to heal at an accelerated rate."
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Julia’s eyes welled with tears, but this time, they were tears of pure joy. She reached out, sliding her hand over mine. "We're really leaving, aren't we? Leaving the city, the organization, the war?"
"We're leaving all of it," I promised her, pressing my lips to her knuckles. "No more bosses, no more targets, no more ghosts. Just you, me, and a quiet house in the mountains."
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