Page 150 of Double Trouble for the Mafia Prince
I walk along the gravel path that rings the southern perimeter, past the fountain with its cracked base and the fig tree that bears bountiful fruit.
My shoes leave soft indentations in the gravel, each one vanishing behind me as I go.
I am halfway to the garden wall when I hear boots crunching fast behind me.
Two guards approach, one of them raising a hand to slow me.
"Madam," he says. "You have a visitor."
My throat tightens. "Who?"
He exchanges a glance with the other man.
"Man says he’s served you for years, and to tell you his name is Renato."
I stop walking.
For a moment, I cannot place the name.
Not because I’ve forgotten it, but because it seems impossible that the word would be spoken again now, of all times, wrapping in something so calm and familiar.
Then I manage a weak nod. "Where?"
"The main waiting room. He came on foot from the north side. The gate team verified him. He asked for you by name."
I turn without another word and follow them back through the courtyard.
When we reach the front wing, I see four more guards stationed just beyond the double doors, and at least two in the corridor.
All of them alert.
All of them watching.
And there in the waiting room, near the fireplace, seated in the high-backed chair, is Renato.
He rises when I enter, still holding his cane in one hand, the other smoothing the front of his coat.
The same coat he wore every autumn.
Wool, deep brown, with a Rossi crest stitched faintly beneath the inner collar.
His face has aged overnight.
New lines curve around his mouth and eyes.
But his posture is the same.
Upright.
Serene.
As if nothing outside this room has touched him.
"Signorina," he says, and the name hits me in a place I thought I had burned down years ago.
"Renato," I answer, and I do not realize I have taken a step forward until the guards shift at the door.
He smiles, just faintly, and bows his head.
