Chapter 2
I cleared the conservatory except for senior capos, the witnesses who had been standing closest to the pond, and the staff who worked the garden.
The donors were furious about being told to leave.
Good.
People reveal entitlement quickly when entertainment ends.
Owen went to the private glasshouse lounge with my physician and two guards. I stayed until his breathing was normal, his wet clothes were removed, and he stopped asking whether Celeste could come inside.
Then I returned.
Victor was seated now.
Celeste stood beside him.
Even after everything, she had moved back toward him.
That told me where her courage came from.
“Who removed the rescue equipment?”
Nobody answered.
I looked at the head gardener.
Elias Grant had worked for Morello twenty-six years.
He swallowed.
“Mr. Victor ordered it.”
Victor sighed. “Maintenance.”
Elias shook his head.
First crack.
“No, sir.”
The room changed.
Victor stared at him.
Elias continued.
“You said the pond needed to look clean for photographs.”
Photographs.
Interesting.
“What photographs?”
Celeste interrupted.
“Donor publicity.”
I almost laughed.
“At a private Mafia reception?”
No answer.
I looked at Elias.
“What else?”
He hesitated.
Then pointed toward the stone edge where Owen had fallen.
“The shallow platform was removed yesterday.”
My stomach tightened.
“What shallow platform?”
A temporary underwater shelf normally used during children’s botanical tours.
The koi pond was deep at the center, but staff could install a raised platform along one side during family events.
It had been removed.
Not forgotten.
Removed.
I looked at Victor.
“You made the pond more dangerous.”
“It’s a pond.”
“No.”
I stepped closer.
“It was a stage.”
Celeste folded her arms.
“You make everything dramatic.”
I turned.
“You shoved a non-swimming three-year-old into deep water while his mother was physically restrained.”
Her mouth closed.
Then Raymond Bell, one of our oldest donors, spoke from the back.
“I was told there would be an initiation.”
I looked at him.
“What initiation?”
Victor’s face hardened.
Raymond saw it and kept speaking anyway.
“An old Morello rite.”
My blood went cold.
I knew enough family history to hate that phrase.
“What rite?”
Raymond looked toward Owen’s empty chair.
“The Water Lesson.”
I had heard the name once.
At my grandfather’s funeral.
A story about boys being taught courage in the conservatory generations ago.
May you like
I had assumed it was metaphor.
Apparently Victor had been waiting years to make it literal again.
