Chapter 2
The sun had barely cleared the wrought-iron perimeter gates by the time
Dominic summoned me to his private study.
The room smelled of old leather, expensive bourbon, and unread legal briefs. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined the walls, interspersed with heavy velvet curtains that blocked out the morning light. Dominic sat behind an enormous mahogany desk, a thick manila folder opened before him. He didn't look up when I stepped onto the Persian rug.
"Clara Martinez," Dominic read aloud, his deep voice rich with irony. "Born in Queens. Father ran an auto repair shop until a stray bullet from a neighborhood turf war put him in a wheelchair and emptied the cash register. You dropped out of college to pay off his medical debts, worked three jobs, and somehow managed to keep a clean record despite living knee-deep in the wreckage of other people's wars."
"My background was in the agency file you approved before I was hired," I said, keeping my hands folded neatly in front of my apron.
"The agency gives me names of women who need money and know how to keep their mouths shut," Dominic replied, finally lifting his gaze. His eyes narrowed, calculating every breath I took. "They don't send women who walk into a fortress of traumatized children and start waking the dead with lullabies."
"Your daughters aren't dead, Mr. Russo," I snapped, the defensive maternal instinct in me flaring up before I could filter it. "They were just waiting to see if anyone in this mausoleum was actually going to live."
The silence that followed was heavy enough to crack pavement. I had just spoken back to the most dangerous man on the Eastern Seaboard—a man whose name was whispered in hushed tones from Manhattan to Palermo. In the mob underworld, people vanished for less than a raised voice.
Instead of reaching for the gun holstered discreetly beneath his tailored vest, Dominic let out a slow, harsh breath. He leaned back in his leather chair, steepling his long fingers together.
"You have no idea what is coming, do you?" Dominic murmured, staring past me toward the heavy oak door. "The men who killed my wife aren't rotting in a grave. They are waiting for me to lower my guard. Every person I bring into this house is a liability. Every face that lingers too long becomes a target."
"I'm not a liability," I said steadily. "I'm a cleaner. I know how to sweep up messes. And right now, the biggest mess in this house isn't outside those gates. It's the fact that your little girls haven't heard their father say I love you without sounding like he's negotiating a contract."
Dominic stood up so fast his chair scraped loudly against the wood floor. He towered over me, his presence suffocating, but I refused to shrink. For a long, tense moment, we stood locked in a silent staring contest. Then, the door creaked open behind us.
Three pairs of small, dark eyes peered into the study.
The middle triplet, holding a crooked purple crayon drawing, took two tentative steps inside and pointed a tiny finger at me.
May you like
"She... she stays," the little girl whispered, her voice rough from months of disuse, but unmistakably clear.
Dominic’s breath hitched. He looked down at his daughter, then back at me, the hard walls around his heart fracturing a little more.
