Chapter 14 - THE ASHES OF KINGS POINT
Two months later.
The summer sun warmed the rolling lawns of Kings Point on the North Shore of Long Island.
The Bianchi estate was gone.
The high iron security fences had been torn down.
The surveillance towers had been demolished by heavy yellow excavators.
In their place, stone masons were laying the foundations for an expansive public garden and arts retreat overlooking the blue waters of Long Island Sound.
A large wooden sign stood near the newly paved driveway:
THE CHARLES HARRISON MEMORIAL FOUNDATION FOR THE ARTS.
DIRECTOR: MIA HARRISON.
I stood on the stone terrace, wearing a light linen sundress and sandals, holding a clipboard of architectural landscape blueprints.
The salty ocean breeze ruffled my hair.
For the first time in my life, the air smelled entirely clean.
No gunpowder.
No stale coffee.
No fear.
Down by the shoreline, Leo was directing a team of workers planting rowan trees along the seawall.
He wore a bright Hawaiian shirt over his massive frame, looking completely ridiculous and thoroughly content.
A black town car pulled quietly up the gravel circle.
The driver’s door opened.
Dominic stepped out.
He wore a tailored navy linen suit, unbuttoned at the collar, with no tie.
His left arm was completely healed, free of the cast.
He carried a single long-stemmed white rose in his hand.
He didn't have armed guards with him.
He didn't have chase cars idling at the gate.
He walked up the stone steps toward the terrace with an easy, confident grace.
My heart did that familiar, treacherous flutter against my ribs.
“Miss Harrison,” he said, stopping at the edge of the terrace.
“Mr. Russo,” I countered, arching an eyebrow.
“You’re trespassing on private property.”
“I came to see the director,” he said smoothly.
He handed me the white rose.
I took it, inhaling its sweet, crisp scent.
“How did the meeting with the Maritime Commission go?” I asked, leaning against the stone balustrade.
“The Russo fleet is officially green-certified,” Dominic replied, a proud smile touching his eyes.
“Twelve commercial container ships operating between New York and Rotterdam.”
“All legal.”
“Every single manifest inspected and approved.”
He stepped closer, resting his hands on the warm stone on either side of my hips.
He leaned in until his lips were inches from mine.
“I heard the director of the foundation is looking for a patron,” Dominic murmured.
“The director is very selective,” I whispered, looking up into his clear gray eyes.
“She doesn't allow mafia bosses on her board.”
“Good thing I retired,” Dominic said softly.
His hands moved from the stone to my waist, pulling me gently against his chest.
The familiar warmth of his body enveloped me.
“Did you sleep well last night, Mia?” he asked, amusement dancing in his voice.
“In my own house?” I teased.
“Yes.”
“I slept terribly,” I confessed, wrapping my arms around his neck.
“The bed was too big.”
“And there was no one checking the locks at three in the morning.”
Dominic laughed—a deep, rich sound that seemed to chase away the last lingering ghosts of the past.
He leaned down and kissed me.
The kiss was slow, deep, and filled with promises that didn't need ledgers or contracts to keep.
When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against mine.
“I love you, Mia,” he whispered.
The words were simple.
They were free.
“I love you too, Dominic,” I replied, tightening my grip on his shoulders.
We stood together on the terrace, watching the white sails of small boats drift across the sparkling blue water of the Sound.
The cage was gone.
May you like
The storm had passed.
And the foundation beneath our feet was finally built on the truth.
