The Shadow of Winter

Chapter 8

        A black Cadillac crept up the lane and pulled off to a private drive, its shiny surface reflecting rays of the evening sun. The drive was neatly plowed with the extra snow having been removed, carving a direct path to the front of an iron gate with a cursive L woven in the center of the bars. Beyond the gate lay a magnificent estate with a lawn empty of most vegetation other than prickly hedges and a few precisely-placed white oaks. In the spring and summer it was an absolutely stunning sight when the hedges were trimmed into shapes and the flowerbeds filled with various species giving color to the land. All this bordered a man-made lake. The lake was iced over as of now, with a thin layer of snow dusting the top. A slight disturbance of the lake could be seen at its shore, where the ice appeared to have been broken and refrozen.

        The Cadillac pulled up to the front gate, pausing as a hand reached out the rolled down driver's window and firmly pressed a thumb to the intercom that was attached. A man's voice spoke from within the car to the intercom, soon getting a response full of static before the gate electronically unlocked itself and swung open. The window rolled up as the vehicle entered the estate, being locked in with an almost sinister clang of the gate.

        Suddenly the place didn't seem so serene anymore.

        Near the end of the driveway, in a small parking area set off to the side, two men clambered out of the car. The driver had a long and thin face with a deep olive skin tone. His brown hair was slicked back to reveal a smooth forehead marred by just a few wrinkles. He was youngish, in his early thirties, but the job he held was working fast to increase his number of age lines. One could only assume that being the right-hand man of someone so powerful came with its stressors.

        From the opposite end of the car exited the passenger. He had long black hair pulled back into a hair tie, and his face was much paler in comparison to his escort. That may not have been due to the natural color of his skin, however.

        A shadow shrouded the men as the setting sun fully disappeared behind the behemoth of a house. It wrapped around them like a cold, thick blanket, sending shivers to the nervous eyes that gazed upward at the ominous silhouette. "Come, come," motioned the escort to the transfixed figure. "The boss is waiting. Don't forget to wipe off your shoes before you step on the carpet, he's very particular about that."

        At the door they wiped their feet on the mat before lightly knocking and treading through. Inside the mansion was clear and pristine, with little standing furniture to block the entrance and halls. The air smelled freshly cleaned as if it had been purged of its impurities moments ago. All was silent except for the distant sound of voices and music coming from the far end of the left hallway. This was where the men went, and the slick-haired escort had his follower wait before the door frame.

        "Rolf. It's Bruno Montanari, the hitman, come to see you."

        There was a pause as those words were mulled over. Then, a deep and croaky voice spoke. "Let him in."

        By now the visitor had gotten his bearings whilst standing outside the doorway, hidden from sight of who lay inside. He had been anxious all morning with the weight of bad news, knowing full well that failure to report back to the head of the organization would end in dismissal. And not a dismissal where one said his goodbyes to his former associates and calmly walked out the door. No, a dismissal that required the spilling of blood and a quiet disposal. Fortunately, Bruno had rehearsed a speech in his head during the car trip and had been ready to serenade the boss. But now as he stepped into the doorway and saw the man of his nightmares, his own employer, pressed back into a comfortable chair with a wine glass at his fingertips surrounded by the lush furnishings of an old style parlor, the confidence he had gained instantly drained away.