Chapter 4 - The Shadow in the Garden
Morning light flooded through the arched windows of the St. Charles estate, turning the Spanish moss outside into shimmering threads of silver and green.
Delia woke up with a start, tangled in the heavy white sheets of the guest bed. For a terrifying second, she thought she was back in her cramped apartment, listening to the streetcars rattle down Magazine Street. Then she heard it—the soft, contented murmuring of babies coming from the cribs beside her.
She sat up, rubbing her eyes.
Both boys were awake, sitting up and batting at a mobile hanging above their heads. As soon as the edge of the blanket slipped from her shoulder, two sets of dark brown eyes snapped toward her.
“Mama,” the one on the left said clearly, flashing a gummy, two-tooth smile.
“Mama,” the second echoed, clapping his chubby hands together.
Delia felt her heart melt into a puddle of warm goo against her will. “Good morning, little guys,” she whispered, swinging her legs over the side of the bed.
Within five minutes, she had mastered the art of changing custom designer diapers while dodging flying baby toys. By the time Mrs. Gable knocked on the door carrying a tray of fresh coffee and pastries, Delia was sitting on the floor with both boys crawling over her lap, giggling in a way that made the old housekeeper burst into happy tears right there on the Persian rug.
“In all my years,” Mrs. Gable sniffed, wiping her eye with a corner of her apron, “Mr. Anton has never heard them laugh like that. Never once.”
“They just needed someone who wasn't terrified of them,” Delia said, adjusting the little girl—whom she had mentally named Lily—on her hip as she walked over to the tray.
An hour later, dressed in the soft cashmere sweater and tailored trousers Anton had provided, Delia brought the triplets down to the vast, marble-columned kitchen for breakfast.
Anton was already there, sitting at the massive oak island with a laptop open and a cup of black coffee in hand. He looked up as she entered, and the professional, cold mask he wore for the outside world melted away instantly.
“They slept,” he stated, as if it were a scientific miracle.
“Like rocks,” Delia smiled, pouring herself a cup of coffee. “And they laughed. You should probably get used to that sound, Mr. Marchetti.”
“Anton,” he corrected automatically, standing up to pull out a chair for her. “And yes. I think I can get used to it.”
Suddenly, the heavy glass French doors leading out to the back gardens shattered.
The sound of breaking glass exploded through the kitchen like a gunshot.
Before Delia could even scream, Anton moved with terrifying, preternatural speed. He lunged across the island, sweeping Delia and the triplets off their feet and driving them hard against the reinforced concrete pillar behind the pantry.
“Down!” Anton roared, drawing a heavy silver pistol from his waistband in a fluid, practiced motion.
From the shadows of the garden patio, the sharp crack-crack of a silenced pistol echoed through the smashed glass, bullets pinging off the marble countertops and embedding themselves into the drywall.
“Donovan!” Anton bellowed, his voice carrying the lethal authority of a wolf pack leader.
Within seconds, heavy tactical boots thundered down the hallway. Donovan and three armed guards poured into the kitchen, returning fire through the broken glass doors while shielding Anton, Delia, and the babies with their armored vests.
“Perimeter breached!” Donovan shouted over the din. “Two shooters in the courtyard—heading for the east gate!”
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Anton’s face was a mask of pure, unadulterated slaughter. The exhausted father vanished in a fraction of a second, replaced entirely by the feared Mafia Don of New Orleans.
“Kill them,” Anton whispered. Not a command. A death sentence. “I want no survivors.”
