Chapter 4 - Shadows at the Gates
Two days later, Marisol was discharged from Saint Jude’s, though Aleandro had explicitly countermanded her return to the staff quarters. Instead, by his direct order, she and Emma were moved into the west wing guest suite—a spacious, sunlit set of rooms featuring plush carpets, a private bathroom with a deep soaking tub, and a large bay window overlooking the private rose gardens.
Marisol had protested vigorously, insisting she belonged in the servants' quarters, but Aleandro had shut down the conversation with a single sentence: "Guests in my house do not sleep next to the laundry room."
Inside the estate, the staff whispered among themselves. Housekeepers murmured in the corridors, and the head butler, a rigid man named Higgins who had served the Romano family for forty years, looked at Marisol with undisguised bewilderment when she was brought down to breakfast wearing a soft cashmere sweater instead of her standard cotton apron.
Aleandro sat at the head of the mahogany dining table, reading the morning financial reports while sipping black coffee. Emma sat in a high chair beside him, happily dipping pieces of French toast into a small bowl of maple syrup under the watchful, amused eye of the mafia boss, who had quietly mastered the art of preventing syrup from dripping onto his custom tablecloth.
The heavy oak front doors suddenly shuddered. A muffled commotion echoed from the foyer—shouted commands, the scrape of leather boots, and the sharp, unmistakable sound of a firearm being racked.
Aleandro didn't even look up from his financial tables.
A moment later, Marcus strode into the dining room, looking tense, followed by two armed guards gripping a man by both arms—a scruffy, sweating individual wearing a cheap leather jacket reeking of stale cigarette smoke and cheap whiskey.
"Boss," Marcus announced, stepping in front of the table. "We have an uninvited guest. Slipped past the perimeter sensors on the north fence. He says he has a message from Vincent Salvatore."
The man in the leather jacket spat on the pristine marble floor, glaring viciously around the grand dining room before locking his bloodshot eyes on Aleandro.
"Romano!" the man snarled, struggling against the guards' grip. "Vincent sends his regards. You’re harboring stolen property. That woman upstairs—Marisol Fuentes—she owes the Salvatore family five thousand dollars in 'administrative recovery fees,' and she’s sitting on shipping logs that belong to us."
At the sound of the name, Marisol, who had been standing quietly near the doorway holding a glass of juice for Emma, froze. The glass slipped from her fingers, shattering against the floor in a loud explosion of glass and red liquid. Emma let out a small cry, burying her face against the table.
Aleandro slowly lowered his coffee cup.
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't stand up. He simply turned his head toward the scruffy intruder, his amber-flecked eyes locking onto the man like a crosshair.
"How many men did Vincent send with you?" Aleandro asked, his voice deathly calm.
The intruder smirked, trying to project false bravado. "Enough to take back what’s ours, Romano. You think because you sit up here in your grand mansion—"
"I asked you a question," Aleandro interrupted, his tone hardening into steel. "How many men?"
"Six outside the gates," the man spat. "And if you don't hand over the woman and the kid in the next two minutes, Vincent’s coming through that front door with a shotgun."
Aleandro turned his gaze to Marcus.
"Take the courtyard detail," Aleandro instructed quietly. "Tell them to use silenced pistols. I don't want the blood ruining the gravel; my gardener just spent three days raking it."
Marcus grinned grimly. "Right away, boss."
The intruder’s bravado vanished instantly. "Wait—what? Hey, you can't—"
Before the man could finish his sentence, Marcus’s fist connected sharply with his jaw, dropping him like a sack of wet cement. Two guards hoisted him up by his armpits and dragged him out of the dining room toward the courtyard.
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Aleandro picked up his napkin, calmly wiped a stray drop of coffee from his lip, and looked across the table at Marisol, who was shaking violently, staring at the shattered glass on the floor.
"Finish your breakfast, Emma," Aleandro said gently to the little girl. Then he looked up at Marisol. "Sit down, Marisol. You’re having tea."
