Chapter 15 - The Brooklyn Overlook
Ten minutes later, the perimeter of the Brooklyn Botanic Garden was sealed tighter than a federal penitentiary.
Four black Suburbans were parked across the access roads, their hazard lights blinking lazily through the humid mist. The NYPD sirens were wailing in the distance, but they were taking their time—the 71st Precinct had already received a call from a high-ranking deputy commissioner advising them to hold back until “private enterprise” concluded its security sweep.
Elena Santoro sat in the rear of one of the Suburbans, zip-tied, her head in her hands, weeping in silent, broken hysterics as Nico spoke rapidly on an encrypted radio outside the glass.
Gabriel stood near the edge of the stone reflecting pool, his shotgun leaning against a concrete balustrade. He had stripped off his blood-spattered suit jacket, leaving him in a dark dress shirt rolled to the forearms, his bare knuckles bruised and swollen.
Chloe walked over, carrying a first-aid kit she had pulled from the truck.
Her knees were scraped raw beneath her torn jeans, her hands shaking so hard the plastic latches of the medical kit rattled against the casing.
“Sit down,” Chloe ordered, her voice trembling with a mix of adrenaline and fury.
Gabriel looked down at her. “I’m fine, Chloe.”
“I didn't ask if you were fine, Mr. Costello,” she snapped, pointing to the stone bench beside the pool. “Sit your massive, stubborn ass down before you bleed through that three-hundred-dollar shirt.”
A flicker of genuine amusement touched Gabriel’s exhausted eyes. Without arguing, he sat on the cold stone, resting his elbows on his knees, looking up at her as she popped open the kit and pulled out an antiseptic wipe.
Chloe stepped between his knees, leaning down to dab at the jagged glass cut across his cheekbone.
The sharp smell of alcohol and witch hazel stung the air. Gabriel didn't flinch. His dark eyes remained locked onto her face, tracking every twitch of her brow, every ragged breath escaping her lips.
“You stomped on a live detonator,” Gabriel murmured, his baritone voice dangerously soft in the quiet garden.
“You dropped a three-ton planter on a mob princess,” Chloe countered, her fingers gently pressing a sterile gauze pad against his temple. “I’d say we’re even on the reckless endangerment scale.”
Gabriel reached up. His large, calloused hand closed around her wrist—not with the violent, bone-crushing grip he’d used at Il Canto two months ago, but with an agonizing, reverent gentleness that made Chloe’s heart skip a beat.
His thumb stroked the delicate, pale skin over her pulse point.
“You could have stayed in the truck,” Gabriel whispered. “You could have taken the train to Canada. I left two million dollars in an account in your name in Zurich. You had your exit.”
Chloe looked down into his bruised-winter eyes. The raw, terrifying monster the underworld feared was nowhere to be seen; in front of her was just a man who had lived his entire life in a cage of his own making, desperately searching for a key.
“I don't run from family, Gabriel,” Chloe said softly.
Gabriel’s breath hitched. His fingers tightened slightly around her wrist, pulling her an inch closer until the heat radiating from his chest warmed the chill in her bones.
A soft, rhythmic cough broke the moment.
Beatrice stood ten feet away, leaning on a polished black cane she had retrieved from the car, an amused, knowing smirk playing across her wrinkled lips.
She raised one hand, signing lazily with her thumb and forefinger:
If you two are finished trying to look like a soap opera, the tea in the car is getting cold. And my grandson in Chicago needs to be called before he hears the Santoro news on the radio.
Chloe’s cheeks flared a bright, furious crimson. She pulled her wrist free from Gabriel’s grip and snapped the first-aid kit shut with an aggressive click.
“Your mother says you need to check on your nephew,” Chloe mumbled, looking away toward the koi pond.
Gabriel stood up slowly, towering over her once again.
He didn't look at his mother. He kept his eyes on Chloe’s blushing face, a rare, breathtakingly handsome smile breaking across his features.
He raised his right hand and signed three words he had practiced for two weeks in the dark of his study:
You are family.
Chloe stared at his fingers.
The signs were clumsy. The spacing was slightly off. But the meaning was so loud it shook the foundations of her world far harder than the shattered glass ever could.
Before she could answer, Nico jogged up the brick path, his face pale, holding his satellite phone out toward Gabriel like a live grenade.
“Boss,” Nico said, his voice shaking. “It’s the port authority in Newark. Frankie Varga’s terminal.”
May you like
Gabriel’s smile vanished instantly. “What about it?”
“They found a secondary manifest in Frankie’s safe deposit box,” Nico swallowed hard. “He wasn't working with the Santoros. The Santoros were just a distraction. Frankie was selling the entire eastern shipping lane to a Russian syndicate out of Brighton Beach. And their first container ship just cleared the harbor.”
