Chapter 13 - THE ASHES OF MEMORY
Three weeks later.
The scent of burnt timber had finally faded from Blackwood Manor.
A small army of skilled craftsmen, carpenters, and stone masons had worked around the clock.
The shattered stained glass had been replaced with hand-cut crystal.
The bullet scars in the granite facade had been chiseled smooth.
The great hall was brighter now.
The heavy, suffocating velvet curtains had been removed, replaced with sheer cream linens that let the summer sunlight flood the flagstones.
In the private garden behind the manor, four white rose bushes had been planted along the stone wall.
Rosalind stood beside the roses, holding a brass watering can.
She wore a simple ivory linen dress, her dark hair pinned loosely behind her head.
The bruise on her cheek was gone.
Her skin was smooth, glowing with a peace she had not known in thirty years.
A soft step sounded on the gravel path.
Piers walked up, carrying a leather-bound folder.
He wore clean sneakers, dark jeans, and a cashmere sweater.
He looked like a normal twenty-three-year-old college student, not the ghost who had dismantled two crime syndicates from a laptop.
"Federal court sentenced Sloane Mercer this morning," Piers reported quietly.
Rosalind did not look up from her roses.
"How long?"
"Thirty-two years without the possibility of parole," Piers said.
"Pekin Federal Correctional Institution."
"Her lawyer tried to file an appeal based on psychological duress."
"The judge threw it out in four minutes."
Rosalind tipped the watering can, letting clear water soak into the dark soil around the roots.
"And Arthur Mercer's freight company?"
"Liquidated," Piers replied, a faint smile touching his lips.
"Gideon bought the equipment at auction for pennies on the dollar."
"It's been absorbed into the Blackwood Port Authority."
"Every dock worker who lost wages under Mercer was given a five-thousand-dollar retention bonus."
Rosalind nodded with quiet approval.
"Good."
"A house is only as strong as the people who sweep its floors."
Beckett walked out into the garden from the stone terrace.
He carried a tray with a pot of fresh mint tea and four delicate porcelain cups.
His raw knuckles had healed into clean pink scars.
He placed the tray on the wrought-iron garden table.
"Gideon's car just pulled through the gates," Beckett said.
"He wrapped up the meetings in New York."
A minute later, Gideon joined them in the sunlight.
He took off his suit jacket, draped it over the back of an iron chair, and loosened his silk tie.
He looked tired, but his eyes were clear, sharp, and confident.
"Arbiter Valenti announced his retirement this morning," Gideon said, pouring himself a cup of tea.
"The Commission has officially restructured."
"There are no more Five Families in the Midwest."
"There is only the Blackwood Council."
Gideon picked up his cup and looked at his two younger brothers.
Then he looked at his mother.
"Every port from Duluth to Cleveland answers to this garden, Mother."
Rosalind set the watering can down.
She walked to the table and sat in the center chair.
Her three sons surrounded her.
Not as mobsters waiting for an execution order.
Not as traumatized boys holding together a shattered empire.
As men who had learned that true strength does not shout, does not strike in public, and does not betray its own bloodline.
Piers reached into his pocket and placed a small velvet pouch on the table before his mother.
Rosalind looked at it.
"What is this, Piers?"
"Santos delivered it from Bellagio yesterday," Piers said softly.
Rosalind reached out with slender fingers and opened the drawstring.
She tilted the pouch.
Onto the white linen tablecloth rolled Callum's wedding band.
The gold ring he had worn for ten years.
Beside it was a single folded sheet of cream paper.
Written in Callum's sharp, trembling hand were five words:
You were always the queen.
Rosalind looked at the ring for three seconds.
The same amount of time Callum had hesitated in the ballroom.
Then she picked up the gold band.
She didn't crush it.
She didn't throw it in the dirt.
She handed it to Beckett.
"Melt it down," Rosalind said calmly.
"Turn it into a medal for the maritime union's charity fund."
May you like
Beckett grinned, closing his fist around the gold.
"Consider it melted, Mom."
