Page 12 of The Boss

“Is that what you're upset about?” I pause. “Juliet, I hope me calling you a nickname I’ve called you for years isn’t an issue for you now.”

“It never was.”

“It never was?” I sigh. “I stopped calling you Jules when you stopped talking to me. But right now I need one of my closest friends to help me.”

“If something is bothering me, I’ll tell you.”

“Good. Nothing is bothering you then?” I look at her, hoping she’ll expand because I have a gut feeling something is bothering her.

Almost like he was listening, Drew walks in and interrupts us.

“Hey, I’m using new software to see if we can get more footage of them. I haven’t come up with anything yet, but I wanted to show you anyway.”

He sets his laptop between Juliet and I on the bar.

“This will run a report on all of the security and traffic cameras near the restaurant to see if it catches the van on any additional cameras. I will be honest, this might not work considering a lot of the cameras are away from the café.”

Juliet and I both stare at him, not moving.

I look at Juliet. She's just sitting there staring at Drew’s face, hoping he’ll come up with something, anything to give us any insight into where Mateo is.

Before I can say anything, Drew interjects my inner thoughts, “If you two don’t stop staring at me, I won’t be able to focus to find out who this is.”

“Juliet, let’s take a walk and let Drew work,” I say, looking at her. Juliet nods her head as she walks around the counter and meets me by the side door that leads outside. “Drew, let us know if you find anything.”

He hums in response.

We silently walk out of the house to the garden. My mother, the ever-sweet and caring Cara Esposito, built this garden before I was born. I don’t remember my mother outside of a select few memories. Memories I don’t think are fully true since she was gone by the time I was three. The one thing I do remember is the sound of her singing; she would sing to me every night.

This peaceful garden was her happy place.

Mateo’s mom would tell me stories of their time together; the two of them were the best of friends. They were both raised in an orphanage for children whose parents were in this mafia world. They both had rough upbringings. My mother was seven when her parents died, and she was sent to the orphanage. Mateo’s mom’s story was different—she was left on the doorstep of the orphanage by someone at six months old.

Over their childhood, our mothers bonded and became like sisters, and met our fathers at the same restaurant where they were both working on the same night. Some said for years how our mothers used our fathers for money and influence, but our mothers were the reason our fathers didn’t become horrible people—that was, until my mother died.

Once she was shot and killed, all bets were off on my father being a decent person.

She designed this garden on her own with over ten-foot stone walls surrounding it. It was a wedding present from my father. He knew she loved everything involving plants and flowers. Her favorite flowers were daisies, and she loved maple trees. In a different life, she would have been a botanist or owned a nursery or both. This became a sore memory for my father. When he was alive, the trees and flowers became overgrown after her death, and eventually, this garden looked like it was never here.

Once he died, I resurrected the garden and rebuilt it to what it used to be. I added more varieties of daisies and maple trees than probably necessary.

Juliet and I walk through the iron gate that opens into the garden; neither of us saying a word. I have kept the gate open since it was rebuilt, so no one would feel like they couldn’t go in.

Mom wanted this place to be shared; she didn’t build it only for herself or for me.

As we venture further, the full garden comes into view, and the large maple tree at the center draws your eyes up. The tree is why she picked this location for the garden. The tree is over 100 years old, and it was one of the only things left from the land before the house was built. The rest of the garden is filled with flowers and shrubs that are native to New York. Like New England Aster, and irises. I had over ten varieties of maple trees planted.

Through the garden, there are walkways leading through the full space.

Every week, a team comes in to trim and take care of the garden because I don’t have the same green thumb she did.

Juliet follows me along one of the paths before we stop in front of the maple tree. I look up, noticing its tall branches covered in bright green leaves that match the greenery around it.

“I come in here anytime I need to think,” I admit, my hands in my pockets.

Juliet looks over to me; her arms are wrapped around herself. “What do you think about out here?” she whispers.

“A lot of things.” I take in another breath and let it out in a whoosh. “My mom and what she would do in different situations. Everyone always says she was the voice of reason for my father. She probably would say something psychological to help me make decisions—that’s what she did with my father when she was alive.” I release another exhale. “Now I think about a wider variety, namely the people who I’ve failed—my sister, Mateo, you⁠—”