She saved the larger half for her mother. I stayed outside the door and wept. By morning, I knew my empire had buried more than money.

The estate was built on eight acres of hilltop land, surrounded by brick walls covered in ivy. At the very edge of the property, hidden behind a thick grove of weeping willows, lay the Walled Garden.

It was an old Victorian greenhouse and courtyard, built by my grandfather in the 1950s. After my mother died twenty years ago, my father had locked the wrought-iron gates and forbidden anyone from entering. It had become a forgotten relic, overgrown with wild thorns, dead vines, and moss.

The brass tag on Gabriel's key read GARDEN 4.

It was 2:00 AM. The rain had paused, leaving a thick, suffocating fog hanging over the grounds. I walked through the darkness, carrying a tactical flashlight and a heavy iron crowbar, my trench coat pulling around my boots in the damp air.

I reached the rusted iron gate of the Walled Garden. Heavy chains were wrapped around the bars, secured with a thick, antique padlock.

I inserted Gabriel’s silver key.

The lock groaned, rusted springs resisting, before turning with a heavy thunk.

I unwrapped the chains and pushed the gate open. The iron hinges shrieked in protest, a sound that died quickly in the heavy fog.

I stepped inside.

The air smelled of damp earth, rotted leaves, and sweet, overgrown flora. Broken glass from the old greenhouse roof glinted like scattered diamonds on the stone pathway. Wild brambles grabbed at my coat as I forced my way through the central courtyard toward the small brick gardener's cottage at the rear.

I reached the cottage door. The wood was swollen with moisture, but the lock was broken. I kicked it open and stepped inside.

The interior was decaying. Dust motes danced in the beam of my flashlight. Old terra-cotta pots were stacked in corners, covered in spiderwebs.

I recalled Gabriel’s note: Hidden in the wall of the locked garden.

I began scanning the brickwork along the southern wall. Near the floorboards, beneath a rusted iron shelf, I noticed three bricks that looked subtly different—their mortar was darker, softer, applied hastily compared to the seventy-year-old masonry around them.

I pulled my crowbar and jammed the edge between the bricks.

The soft mortar crumbled instantly. I pried the three bricks out, revealing a hollow space inside the structural wall.

Reaching inside, my fingers touched cold, smooth plastic.

I pulled out a heavy-duty waterproof Pelican case, sealed tight with rubber gaskets.

My heart hammered against my ribs. I sat down on an overturned wooden crate, placed the case on my knees, and popped the heavy latches.

Inside lay a micro-cassette recorder, four audio tapes, and a stack of printed bank statements showing offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands under the name Vane Holdings Ltd.

I picked up the first tape, inserted it into the portable player Gabriel had left inside the case, pressed the headphones to my ears, and hit PLAY.

Static hissed through the speakers, followed by the sound of rain tapping against glass.

Then, voices came through crisp and clear.

MARCO'S VOICE: "Is the Newark hit confirmed?"

UNKNOWN VOICE: "Yes, Boss. Two shooters. They’ll open fire as soon as Santoro and Russo step out of the restaurant."

MARCO'S VOICE: "Make sure Russo doesn't survive. He’s been snooping in the foundation books. If he dies, the widow won't have the legal standing to audit the pension accounts. We'll transfer the monthly allocations to the shell company in Nassau."

UNKNOWN VOICE: "What about Santoro? What if he gets hit?"

MARCO'S VOICE: "If Matteo dies, I take over the family leadership automatically. Either way, we win. Just make sure Russo takes the fatal hit."

I took off the headphones slowly.

The silence of the abandoned greenhouse settled over me like a heavy burial shroud.

It was all there. A full confession. A cold-blooded conspiracy to murder my bodyguard and attempt my own assassination to seize control of the Santoro syndicate.

Marco hadn't just been stealing bread from a little girl's mouth. He had orchestrated the bloodbath that destroyed her family, all while standing beside me at Gabriel’s funeral, shedding fake tears and patting my shoulder.

I carefully packed the tapes and documents back into the Pelican case, closed the latches, and stood up.

As I stepped out of the gardener’s cottage into the foggy courtyard, a loud snap sounded behind me.

A flashlight beam cut through the mist, pinning me in its glare.