The Grounds Keeper

Chapter 6 Unwelcome Reminiscence

Chapter 6: Unwelcome Reminiscence

The scent of ocean breeze calmed him.

Eathon opened his eyes and found himself lying on the old timber pier in Calasetta.

Home.

Warm air filled his lungs, rich with the smell of salt, rotting fish, and sun-warmed seaweed. He looked ahead to see Giuseppe — white singlet, overalls, his thick hands steady as he ran a hand plane over the railing of a luxury yacht. Long, confident strokes sent curls of wood tumbling like feathers.

"So," his father said without turning, "what have you decided, my boy?"

Eathon blinked. "About what, Baba?"

Giuseppe paused. "About Signore Mercenaro's generous offer."

Eathon's jaw clenched.

Salvatore Mercenaro. The name alone made his stomach turn. He owned Sardinia's entire timber trade, and by extension, most of its black market. Every builder, butcher, fisherman, and hotel paid him. He didn't just control the economy — he was the economy. The Don of Sardinia. A man feared even by the shadows.

Now he wanted a son-in-law.

None of the local families would dare marry into his empire — not willingly. No one wanted to entangle themselves with the Mercenaro name, no matter how beautiful the daughter or wealthy the dowry.

But Eathon wasn't from any of those old families. He was Giuseppe's stray. A bastard. A nobody. No one would risk crossing Mercenaro to protect him or his father.

And Mercenaro knew it.

"Father," Eathon said quietly, "I can't even hold a woman's hand. How am I supposed to marry a stranger?"

Giuseppe stopped planing and stretched his aching back, joints cracking in chorus. "You're strong, Eathon. Kind. Skilled. But I worry for your future. Our business isn't thriving. Another few years like this and... well, I'll have to retire soon. You're not lazy — I know that. But the world offers no guarantees."

"Marry the girl," he said. "Claudia is beautiful. And Mr. Mercenaro's offer is generous. Many would be thrilled at such a chance, considering..."

He stopped himself.

"Considering what?" Eathon growled. His voice rose with the heat he'd fought since boyhood. "That I'm a bastard? Some whore's dropping left to die at sea, and you saved me? That I'm the only six-and-a-half-foot blond Sardinian on the island?"

Giuseppe turned to him, calm despite the fire in Eathon's voice. "You are a Lorenzo. My son. When I found you alone on that ship, burning with fever, half-dead from the cold, I didn't hesitate. I carried you to shore. You were the only survivor. My wife had died the year before. I was 56 and broken. And you gave me purpose. You gave me life again."

He placed a hand gently on Eathon's shoulder.

"You are Italian. I raised you that way. Let's leave it at that."

Eathon's eyes dropped. "Then let me choose my own path. I want to fall in love — not be handed off like some asset. I'll run the business until I'm old and gray if I have to, but I won't sell my soul to that man's family. Salvatore is a tyrant. A Don. If I marry Claudia, I'm legitimizing him. What kind of daughter is raised by someone like that? What kind of life would that be?"

Giuseppe smiled and kissed his son's hand. "If that's your final say, I understand. I'll speak to Salvatore tonight."

Eathon grabbed him in a hug, desperate. "Don't. He'll take it as an insult. Just leave with me. Let's go to the mainland. We're carpenters — there's always work. He's only powerful here. He can't reach us if we go."

Giuseppe pulled back, resting his hand on Eathon's shoulder. "Salvatore came to me not as a Don, but as a father. He wants his daughter free of this world he built. And I believe him."

"I'll tell him the truth. That you're not ready. That you wish to establish yourself first. That's not an insult — it's honesty. And that is still respected, even by men like him."

He gave a warm pat, then turned toward home.

"I'll be safe. I promise."

That night, Giuseppe dressed in his old woolen suit and hunter's cap. He left at six.

Five hours passed.

Eathon hadn't sat still for more than two minutes. He paced. Stared at the clock. The knot in his gut never loosened.

At 11:00, he broke.

Throwing on a heavy coat, he pocketed a few woodworking chisels and ran out the door. He followed his instincts to the Mercenaro estate — a massive home on the waterfront, eerily dark.

No lights. No movement.

But he saw the tire marks. Deep, black streaks — unmistakable. The worn tires of Giuseppe's old car. They led straight toward the seafront.

Eathon ran faster than he ever had. The chemical stench hit him first. Then the flames.

His father's car was engulfed.

The heat pushed him back as smoke choked the air. The windshield had already melted. Inside, in the driver's seat, sat a charred, slumped figure. The thick wool suit burned slow, but the body had melted like wax.

There was no doubt. It was Giuseppe.

Eathon collapsed. No breath. No scream. Just silence.

His fists slammed into the road, gravel embedding into his skin. Blood streamed from his knuckles.

Then he noticed it — a trail of fire. A long line of accelerant had been poured to lead the flames away from the car.

Deliberate. Controlled.

They had stood at a distance. Watched it burn.

Eathon followed the trail. Past the docks. Through sand and brush. To a white hatchback hidden behind trees. Two men. Cigarettes glowing. Empty jerry cans at their feet, now filled with rocks.

His heart became stone.

"This one's full, Vince. Toss it in the boat," said Marco, wiping sweat from his brow.

Vincenzo dragged a full can toward the edge of the pier. "We couldn't just use seawater?"

"They'd float, genius. Last thing we need is one of these cans washing up during storm season. The police are paid off, but even they can't ignore evidence that obvious."

He turned to grab another can — and stopped.

"Vince? Where the hell—?"

The dock was empty.

One of the cans lay on its side, pebbles spilling out. Marco stepped to the edge, confused. He switched on his phone light and shined it into the water.

A puffed-up jacket floated, lifeless.

Vincenzo's body bobbed just beneath the surface, a crimson streak leaking from his throat. A long chisel jutted from his neck.

Marco opened his mouth to scream.

But a hand grabbed him by the back of the neck and shoved him into the water.

He reached for his gun — but his jacket had been stripped and stuffed over his face, muffling everything. He kicked. Flailed. But the grip on his spine was unbreakable.

The water was ice. Each breath filled his lungs with pain. Then silence. Then cold.

Then nothing.

That night, Eathon packed everything he owned — tools, money, heirlooms — and fled.

He stole a small fishing boat and sailed to the mainland under moonlight, catching the earliest train to Austria. He left his father behind, unburied. Unavenged.

And worst of all, his hands — his strong, calloused hands — were stained with blood that would never wash clean.