Chapter 13 - The Empty Chair
The iron security gates of the Preston Hollow estate swung open automatically as our three armored Escalades roared up the limestone driveway.
The grounds were dead silent.
The exterior security lights cast long, ominous shadows across the manicured lawns.
I stepped out of the vehicle first, leaving Madison safely locked inside the armored cabin under Frank’s direct protection.
I walked up the grand marble steps, pushing open the heavy mahogany front door without knocking.
The foyer was empty.
The smell of roasted garlic and vintage Chianti still hung in the air from our aborted afternoon meeting.
I walked down the long hallway toward the grand dining room.
The double doors were propped wide open.
Inside, the crystal chandelier blazed with amber light.
Uncle Antonio sat slumped in his high-backed chair, a bullet hole neatly centered between his gray temples, his glass of Chianti spilled across the white tablecloth in a dark, spreading pool of red.
Julian was gone, dragged away by Antonio’s loyalists or dumped into a shipping container bound for the Gulf.
And sitting alone at the head of the long mahogany table, calmly sipping a cup of chamomile tea, was my mother.
Elena Moretti.
She wore a high-collared black silk dress, her silver hair pinned back into an immaculate French twist.
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She didn't look up when my boots clicked against the parquet floor.
She simply stirred her tea with a silver spoon, letting the metallic chime echo through the empty room.
