Chapter 6 - The Breakfast Table
The guest suite was larger than the entire ground floor of Chloe’s apartment building in Queens.
The bed had four posts of carved walnut and sheets with a thread count that felt like cool water against her skin. There was a marble fireplace, an en-suite bathroom with gold-plated fixtures, and a walk-in closet stocked with fresh clothes in her exact size—soft cashmere sweaters, tailored jeans, and silk pajamas, all with the tags still attached.
Chloe hadn't slept a wink.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the red laser dot on her forehead. She heard the wet crunch of Domenic’s hand being pinned to the table.
At seven in the morning, a soft, rhythmic knock sounded at her door.
One. Two-three. One. A distinct cadence.
Chloe opened the door cautiously.
Beatrice stood in the hallway, dressed in an immaculate lavender tweed skirt suit, carrying a porcelain tray with two cups of espresso and a plate of warm, almond-crusted biscotti.
Behind her stood two massive security guards with earpieces, looking deeply uncomfortable holding delicate pastry plates.
Beatrice waved the guards away with a flick of her hand and stepped into the suite, setting the tray down on the marble coffee table.
You look like a corpse, Beatrice signed cheerfully, handing Chloe an espresso cup. Drink. It has enough caffeine to wake your ancestors.
Chloe took the cup, letting the rich, bitter steam hit her face. Thank you, Mrs. Costello.
Call me Beatrice. 'Mrs. Costello' was my mother-in-law, and she was a miserable woman who watered down the gravy to save money.
Chloe sat on the velvet sofa, letting out a genuine laugh. For a few minutes, sitting in the warm morning light with this sharp-tongued old woman, the nightmare of the previous night felt a million miles away.
My son is down in the courtyard, Beatrice signed, settling into the armchair across from her. He hasn't slept either. He’s been in the armory since four.
Is he always like that? Chloe asked.
Beatrice’s expression grew somber. She set her cup down and looked out the arched French doors toward the mist-covered lawn.
When Gabriel was twelve, his father was shot in the throat on our front stoop. Gabriel was the one who held a towel to his neck while we waited for an ambulance that took forty minutes to arrive.
Chloe’s heart sank.
He decided that day that he would never be weak, Beatrice continued, her fingers moving with a heavy, deliberate sadness. He took the family when he was twenty-five. He became cold so nobody could hurt him. He bought me this palace, he pays for fifty men to guard the perimeter, but he doesn't know how to speak to me. He thinks money is a conversation.
He cares about you, Chloe signed gently. I saw his face last night when he realized you were trying to warn him. He felt ashamed.
Beatrice’s eyes softened. I know. But pride is a terrible disease, little bird. It kills more men in our world than bullets.
The door to the suite swung open without a knock.
Gabriel stood in the frame. He had changed into a dark charcoal henley shirt and black trousers, his hair damp from a shower, the dark shadow of a five o'clock shadow darkening his sharp jawline. He was rolling down his sleeves, revealing a long, jagged scar running from his right wrist up to his elbow.
He stopped when he saw them sitting together, looking at the empty space between their hands as if trying to decipher a magical spell.
“Breakfast is served in the main dining room,” Gabriel said, his voice scratchy from lack of sleep.
Chloe stood up, smoothing down the borrowed cashmere sweater. “We already have espresso, Mr. Costello.”
Gabriel’s eyes lingered on the oversized sweater on her frame—it was a deep forest green that made her amber eyes pop. His jaw tightened slightly before he looked away.
“Nico intercepted a courier outside the Santoro compound an hour ago,” Gabriel said coldly. “Domenic had three offshore accounts registered under a shell corporation. But he wasn't the only one taking payoffs.”
Beatrice immediately caught the tension in her son’s body. She stood up, her hands snapping into position:
Who was it?
Gabriel looked at Chloe. The command in his eyes was absolute. “Tell her.”
Chloe translated the signs. “She wants to know who else is dirty.”
Gabriel took a slow, heavy breath. “Frankie 'The Bishop' Varga. The head of our docks.”
Beatrice gasped, one hand flying to her throat.
Frankie Varga was Gabriel’s godfather. The man who had carried Gabriel on his shoulders at his first communion.
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Before Chloe could say a word, the wail of a high-decibel perimeter siren tore through the mansion, shaking the crystal sconces on the walls.
Gunfire—heavy, automatic, and terrifyingly close—erupted from the front gates.
