Chapter 2 - The Whisper in the Dark
The silence that followed Grace’s words was heavier than the ocean.
Outside, a late-autumn wind rattled the heavy oak window frames of the Long Island estate. Inside, four pairs of eyes stared at me.
"Say that again," I said, my voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper that usually made grown men drop to their knees in prayer.
Grace didn't back down. She stood between me and my daughters, her shoulders squared, her chin lifted just enough to show she wasn't going to break.
"Sophie said the man who hurt their mother lives here," Grace repeated, her hand gently stroking Nora's curls. "She said he walks through the hallways at night."
I looked down at seven-year-old Sophie. She was staring at my leather boots, her jaw set tight, her small chest heaving beneath her oversized apron. For fourteen months, the police, my underbosses, and my private investigators had insisted Isabelle's murder was a targeted hit by the rival Moretti crime family. A drive-by shooting outside a quiet suburban school. A message to Dominic Romano.
I had spent the last fourteen months hunting down every Moretti soldier in the tri-state area. I had buried five men in shallow graves in the Meadowlands.
And all this time, my daughters had been sitting in this house, carrying a truth that had kept them mute with terror.
"Sophie," I said, dropping to one knee, ignoring the sharp pain in my ribs where a bullet had grazed me three weeks ago. "Look at me, sweetheart."
Sophie took a half-step backward, hiding further behind Grace.
My heart shattered all over again.
"They're afraid of the uniform, Mr. Romano," Grace said quietly, glancing at the dark bloodstain drying on my right cuff.
I looked down at my coat. In my rush to return home after a brutal sit-down in Queens, I hadn't changed. I smelled of gunpowder, stale tobacco, and violence. To three little girls who had seen their mother gunned down, I didn't look like a father. I looked like the monsters they dreamed about.
I stood up slowly, unbuttoned my coat, and unholstered my heavy .45 automatic pistol.
Grace gasped softly, stepping further in front of the girls.
I didn't point it at her. I walked over to the kitchen island, opened the top drawer, and set the gun inside, locking it with the brass key before dropping the key onto the marble counter. I pulled off my coat, tossed it into the trash bin by the pantry, and rolled up my crisp white sleeves.
"Prescott!" I bellowed into the hallway.
A moment later, Prescott Hale—my chief of security and the man who had guarded my family for fifteen years—stepped into the kitchen doorway. His hand rested naturally near his coat lining, his sharp gray eyes scanning the room.
"Boss?" Prescott asked.
"Lock the perimeter," I ordered, my eyes never leaving Grace. "Nobody enters the gates. Nobody leaves. Tell the guards on the north and south lawns to double their patrols. If a sparrow flies over the wall without my clearance, shoot it down."
Prescott hesitated for a fraction of a second, his gaze flicking toward Grace and the girls. "Did something happen, Dominic?"
"Just do it," I growled.
"Right away, boss." Prescott turned on his heel and disappeared down the hall.
I turned back to Grace. "My office. Five minutes. Bring the girls."
"They won't speak in your office, Mr. Romano," Grace said firmly. "That room smells like cognac and cigars. It scares them."
I paused, taken aback by her audacity. No one talked to Dominic Romano like that. No one dictated terms in my house.
"Where, then?" I demanded.
"The sunroom," Grace said softly. "It has windows. They can see the garden."
I looked at her—really looked at her—for the first time since she had been hired. She was twenty-six, thin, with dark chestnut hair tied back in a messy knot and grey eyes that held no fear of me. She had come through a local domestic agency with clean papers and a quiet demeanor. I had assumed she was just another desperate soul looking for a paycheck in a wealthy house.
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I was wrong. She was the anchor holding my daughters together while I was off waging a war that was built on a lie.
"Five minutes," I said, turning toward the stairs. "In the sunroom."
