Chapter 3 - The Sanctuary in the Garden
At ten o'clock in the morning, the autumn air was crisp and smelled of rain and salt water.
In the walled stone garden on the south side of the manor, Clara pushed Matteo’s wheelchair along the brick pathway. The garden was surrounded by twelve-foot stone walls covered in ivy, completely sheltered from the wind.
Vincent stood on the high stone terrace above, watching through a pair of high-powered binoculars. He could hear their voices through the directional microphone concealed beneath the terrace eaves.
"Look at the moss on the north side of the fountain, Matty," Clara was saying, stopping the chair beside a weathered marble basin. "Notice how it grows thicker where the sun doesn't hit? Nerves are a lot like that. They hide in the shade when they’re hurt. But if you give them time and don't force them, they start reaching for light again."
Matteo sat rigid, his hands resting on his lap. He didn't turn his head, but Vincent noticed a subtle shift in the boy's posture—his fingers were no longer clenched into tight, defensive fists.
Clara knelt beside the wheelchair on the damp stone path, entirely unbothered by the dirt staining her jeans. She pulled a small wooden carving from her pocket—a rough, hand-carved robin with unpainted wings.
"Your father thinks strength is made of iron and stone," Clara said softly, her voice carrying clearly through the hidden microphone. "He built this giant house with walls and cameras because he thinks the world is waiting to break you. But he doesn't realize you aren't broken, Matty. You're just resting."
On the terrace above, Vincent’s grip on the binoculars tightened until his knuckles turned white.
How did she know about the cameras?
Did she spot the lens hidden in the oak molding? Was she trained in counter-surveillance?
Below, Clara set the wooden robin on Matteo's lap. She didn't press him to touch it. She simply sat on the stone bench beside him, pulled a paperback book from her bag, and began to read aloud in a steady, soothing rhythm.
Vincent stepped away from the terrace railing and walked down the grand marble staircase toward the garden doors. He pushed open the heavy iron-reinforced oak doors, his polished leather shoes clicking sharply against the stone path.
Clara didn't jump or look startled. She slowly closed her book, marked the page with a ribbon, and looked up at him as he approached.
"Mr. Rossi," she said politely, her posture calm and composed.
"Miss Vance," Vincent said, stopping three feet from the bench. He looked down at his son. "Matteo."
The boy didn't look up, remaining motionless, staring at the wooden bird on his lap.
"The wind is picking up," Vincent said, his voice carrying the firm authority of a man accustomed to commanding hundreds of men. "He should be inside."
"The fresh air is improving his oxygen saturation, Mr. Rossi," Clara replied gently, but without a trace of submission. "His lung capacity drops when he stays inside the east wing for too long. Fifteen more minutes will do him good."
Vincent’s eyes narrowed slightly. "I didn't ask for a clinical assessment, Miss Vance. I gave an instruction."
Clara stood up from the bench. She was nearly a foot shorter than Vincent, but she stood her ground, looking directly into the dark eyes of the man the entire east coast mafia referred to as Il Diavolo.
"With all due respect, Mr. Rossi," Clara said, her voice dropping so only he could hear, "you hired me to manage his physical and emotional recovery. If you intend to run his therapy like a prison schedule, you don't need a specialist. You need a guard."
Vincent stared at her for a long, silent moment. The air between them grew heavy, cold, and electric.
May you like
"My house," Vincent whispered, stepping closer until he was inches from her, "has rules, Miss Vance. The primary rule is that my decisions regarding my son are absolute."
"Then your primary rule," Clara whispered back, completely unflinching, "is the main reason he hasn't taken a step in fourteen months."
