Chapter 3
By the end of the second week, the atmosphere inside the Russo mansion had fundamentally shifted.
The guards in the corridors still wore their grim, stoic expressions, and the couriers still delivered heavy black briefcases to the study, but downstairs in the sunroom, the air smelled like vanilla extract and melted crayons.
The triplets had found their voices, and once they started speaking, they didn't stop. They asked questions about the clouds, about why birds could fly when people couldn't, and why I put cinnamon in the morning oatmeal. They followed me everywhere, their small footsteps a comforting rhythm against the marble floors.
Rosa, the veteran housekeeper who had watched over the estate for a decade and a half, pulled me aside near the pantry one afternoon while scrubbing a copper pot until it gleamed.
"In all the years I've worked for this family, I've never seen Mr. Russo look at anyone the way he looked at you last night at dinner," Rosa whispered, her eyes wide with a mix of awe and dread. "He watched you pass the salt like you were holding a live grenade, Clara. But for the first time since the shooting, he didn't check his watch every thirty seconds. He stayed at the table until the girls finished their milk."
"He's just adjusting," I said, though my own pulse skipped a beat remembering how Dominic's gaze had lingered on me across the candlelight.
"He's falling," Rosa corrected softly. "And that makes you the most dangerous woman in New York."
That evening, the danger materialized before I could even process Rosa's warning.
I was upstairs tucking the girls into their beds when I heard a muffled commotion coming from the grand foyer downstairs—the distinct, heavy thud of boots, the sharp click of safeties being switched off, and Dominic’s voice, cold as winter ice, cutting through the shadows.
"You're trespassing, Santoro," Dominic growled from the landing below.
I crept out of the children's room, peeking over the wrought-iron railing of the second-floor gallery.
Standing in the center of the grand foyer was Vincent Santoro, a slick, silver-haired caporegime from the Brooklyn faction, flanked by four armed enforcers. Santoro was smiling—a wide, oily grin that didn't reach his dead eyes.
"Relax, Dom," Santoro purred, spreading his hands. "I'm just here to deliver a friendly reminder from the commission. Your focus has slipped lately. Word on the street is you're spending more time playing domestic house-husband with your little maids and your mute kids than managing the docks."
Dominic didn't flinch, but his right hand dropped casually toward his waistline. "The docks are profitable, Vincent. And my house is none of your concern."
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"It becomes my concern when your weakness threatens the family’s revenue," Santoro sneered, taking a step toward the grand staircase. "Maybe I should go upstairs and introduce myself to your new little pets. See what all the fuss is about—"
He never finished the sentence.
