Chapter 4 - Into the Dead Garden
Without waiting for her to answer, Alessandro reached down, his large, calloused hand gently closing around Lily’s tiny, freezing wrist. He didn't pull her; instead, he stepped slightly in front of her, using his broad shoulders and heavy wool coat to block the worst of the driving wind and rain as they stepped off the stone terrace and onto the muddy dirt path.
The path wound downward between rows of towering black cypress trees, leading toward the cliffside acreage that the estate staff referred to simply as the Dead Garden.
Three years ago, this had been Isabella’s pride—a massive field of sunflowers that caught the last golden rays of the Long Island sunset before plunging into the sea. But the night Isabella and Arya died, Alessandro had ordered the gardeners to stop tending it. He couldn't bear the sight of bright yellow petals facing a sea that had taken his world. Over the seasons, weeds had choked the stalks, thorny briars had woven a thick, impenetrable blanket over the soil, and the wooden fences had rotted into gray skeletons.
It was a desolate, forgotten place—a scar on the edge of the property.
As they walked down the slippery slope, Alessandro kept a firm, protective grip on Lily’s hand. He felt the unnatural heat of her skin, realizing the child was shivering from the chill. Without a second thought, he shrugged off his heavy cashmere overcoat and wrapped it around Lily’s small shoulders. The coat swallowed her completely, trailing in the mud, but it immediately shut out the freezing wind.
Lily looked up at him in awe, her teeth still clicking together. "Mr. Moretti... your coat..."
"Quiet," Alessandro said, his tone gruff, though his eyes scanned the dark, overgrown brush ahead. "Watch your step. The ground's giving way near the edge."
They reached the lower edge of the garden, where the tall, dead stalks of old sunflowers rattled like dry bones in the gale. Lightning flashed overhead, casting a blinding, ghost-white light across the tangled landscape.
In that momentary illumination, Alessandro saw it.
About twenty yards into the field, caught on a rusted wire fence half-buried under a mound of rotting vines, was a patch of faded blue fabric.
Button.
"There!" Lily gasped, pointing with a gloved finger. "That's him!"
Alessandro pulled her closer behind him, drawing a small, silenced Sig Sauer pistol from his shoulder holster with practiced, instinctive ease. His years in the underworld had taught him never to trust an open space, especially one shrouded in darkness and storm. He swept the beam of his heavy tactical flashlight—which he always carried in his belt—across the tall weeds.
Nothing moved except the wind. Just dead stalks, wet mud, and tangled briars.
He holstered the weapon, stepping carefully through the thorns to reach the fence. He unhooked the waterlogged stuffed rabbit and held it out.
Lily let out a ragged cry of relief, snatching the toy to her chest and burying her wet face into its cotton fur. "Oh, Button! I thought the wind took you forever!"
Alessandro stood over her, shielding her from the rain. He was about to turn back toward the house when his boot heel caught on something hard and metallic hidden beneath the thick layer of decaying leaves and rotted sunflower stalks.
It wasn't a root. It wasn't a stone.
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It had the flat, unyielding edge of manufactured iron.
Alessandro frowned. He crouched down in the mud, ignoring the water soaking through his trousers, and swept his bare hands through the wet mulch.
