Chapter 9 - The Matriarch’s Tea
The wrought-iron gates of the Caruso estate in Glen Cove swung open under the force of our front bumper.
Sal didn't wait for the intercom.
The heavy steel reinforcement on the front of the armored Mercedes shattered the lock, sending the twin gates crashing into the manicured rhododendron bushes lining the half-mile driveway.
Private security guards in gray uniforms emerged from the gatehouse, raising sidearms.
Sal fired two non-lethal flash-bang canisters through the driver’s side firing port.
The night exploded in blinding white light and concussive thunder, sending the guards scrambling into the grass, disoriented and clutching their ears.
We pulled up directly to the grand stone steps of the three-story Georgian manor.
The house where I had grown up.
The house where my father had died.
The house where Beatrice had presided over tea every Sunday afternoon, smiling while she orchestrated the slow theft of an empire.
“Stay in the car with Sophie,” I told Elena.
“The doors are reinforced titanium. Nothing short of an anti-tank missile will penetrate this glass.”
“Matteo—”
“Sal, if anyone approaches this vehicle who isn't me, empty the magazine.”
“Understood, boss.”
I stepped out into the cool ocean breeze blowing off the Long Island Sound.
The rain had stopped, leaving the night crisp and smelling of cedar and wet stone.
I walked up the marble steps, pushing open the heavy double doors of oak and leaded glass.
Inside, the foyer was dead quiet.
A crystal chandelier hung from the thirty-foot ceiling, casting fractured geometric shadows across the black-and-white marble floor.
And sitting at the far end of the grand hall, next to a roaring limestone fireplace, sat Beatrice Caruso.
She was sixty-four years old, dressed in an immaculate cream-colored cashmere sweater and pearl necklace.
In front of her sat a silver tea service, steam rising gently from a porcelain cup.
She didn't flinch when I entered.
She didn't look up from her saucer.
“You always were dramatic, Matteo,” she said, her voice smooth, refined, and completely devoid of guilt.
“Just like your father. Breaking gates instead of using the buzzer.”
I walked across the echoing marble, my boots leaving wet tracks on the Persian rugs.
I stopped at the edge of the low mahogany table.
“Where are the original trust deeds, Beatrice?”
She took a delicate sip of her Earl Grey, dabbed her lips with a linen napkin, and finally looked up at me with her cold, pale blue eyes.
“In a safe deposit box you will never access, darling.”
“Nico is in police custody,” I said flatly.
“His operatives are lying wounded on 44th Street. Marco has already filed federal affidavits detailing the shell corporations in the Caymans.”
Beatrice gave a soft, dismissive wave of her hand.
“Nico is a weak boy. I always knew he lacked the stomach for governance. If he goes to prison, it is merely the cost of doing business. But you, Matteo… you are making a fatal mistake.”
She leaned forward, her pearls clicking against the edge of the teacup.
“You think you are protecting an innocent girl. What you are actually doing is handing our family’s bloodline to a bastard born of a lounge singer.”
“Her name is Elena,” I said, every nerve ending in my body screaming for violence, held back only by the iron discipline my father had beaten into me.
“And Sophie is my daughter.”
“She is an infection!” Beatrice hissed, her aristocratic mask finally slipping, revealing the venomous hatred beneath.
“Your father built this shipping conglomerate with blood, sweat, and political favors! He spent decades keeping the Carusos at the summit of New York society! And then he wanted to give half of it away to a gutter child he sired in a back room between concerts!”
She stood up, her hands trembling with fury.
“I spent thirty years protecting this family from his weakness! I ensured Clara stayed in the shadows! I ensured Elena was erased before she could latch her claws into your fortune! I did it for the family, Matteo! For you!”
“You did it for yourself,” a quiet voice said from the entryway.
Beatrice froze.
I turned around.
May you like
Elena was standing at the entrance of the grand foyer, holding Sophie in her arms.
The little girl was wrapped in the warm wool blanket from the car, her gray Caruso eyes fixed upon the woman who had spent six years ensuring she stayed hungry.
