Chapter 8 - The Weight of Ash
Three months later, the Chicago snow had finally melted into the dirty gray slush of early April.
The Lake Forest estate was empty.
I walked through the cavernous, echoing rooms of the limestone manor, my heels clicking sharply against the bare hardwood floors. The furniture had been auctioned off for charity. The chandeliers had been crated and sent to the Romano warehouse. The Persian rugs were gone, revealing the pristine oak boards beneath.
Only one room had not been stripped bare.
I walked up the grand staircase, my hand trailing along the polished mahogany banister, and turned down the western wing toward the corner suite.
The nursery.
I pushed the door open.
The pale blue walls were still there, painted with delicate white clouds and flying swallows that an artist from Rome had spent two weeks brushing onto the plaster. The white crib, crafted from Italian walnut, stood against the wall, its mattress covered in a clean linen sheet that had never felt the weight of a sleeping child.
I walked into the center of the room and sat down on the edge of the low rocking chair by the window.
The afternoon sunlight was pale and thin, warming the wood floor just enough to release the faint scent of fresh paint and lavender polish.
I didn't cry.
My tears had run out somewhere between the hospital bay and the frozen docks of Indiana. What remained was a clean, hollow quiet—the kind of quiet that follows a great fire after the smoke has finally cleared and the ground is cool enough to plant seeds again.
The front door chimed downstairs.
A few moments later, Aaron Feld’s quiet footsteps sounded on the hallway runner. He stopped at the open doorway of the nursery, wearing a dark trench coat, carrying a slim leather briefcase under his arm.
"Carmela?" he said softly.
"Come in, Aaron," I replied, not looking away from the crib.
He stepped inside, taking off his spectacles and wiping them with a silk handkerchief. "The closing on the Lake Forest property went through at noon. A family from California bought it. Tech money. They don't know who Enzo was, and they don't know what happened here. They’re taking possession on Monday."
"Good," I said. "And the funds?"
"Transferred directly into the Salvatore and Carmela Romano Pediatric Foundation at Central City Hospital," Aaron reported, clicking open his briefcase. "Dr. Keller’s department has a new surgical wing named in memory of your son. It will be operational by September."
I nodded slowly. "And Enzo?"
Aaron hesitated, his eyes dropping to the floorboards. "He lost the West Side territory yesterday. The Genovese family moved in from New York to take over the distribution hubs. He didn't fight them. He signed over the last of his company cars to pay his legal defense fees for the federal tax probe."
"Where is he living?"
"In a basement apartment off 24th and Oakley," Aaron said quietly. "Near his old neighborhood. One of my runners saw him last week at the church on Taylor Street. He sits in the back pew for hours, holding a silver medal of Saint Jude, staring at the floor. He looks sixty years old, Carmela. His hair has gone completely white."
"He made his bed, Aaron," I said, rising from the rocking chair. "Let him sleep in it."
I walked over to the crib. Resting on the white linen sheet was a small, hand-knitted blanket of cream-colored cashmere that I had worked on during those long, lonely winter evenings while Enzo was out dining with Bianca.
I picked it up, folded it into a neat square, and tucked it under my arm.
"Are you ready to go?" Aaron asked.
"Yes," I said. "I have a meeting at four."
"With the council?"
"No," I replied, a small, genuine smile touching my lips for the first time in five months. "With the architectural board. We’re breaking ground on the new conservatory at the Geneva estate next month. My father always wanted a glass greenhouse for his lemon trees. I think it’s time we built it."
I took one last look at the painted swallows on the pale blue wall, walked out into the corridor, and closed the white door behind me.
May you like
I didn't lock it. There was nothing left inside to steal.
***
