For the rest of that afternoon, I pretended I had heard nothing.
I scrubbed soap from the marble.
I dried the cabinets.
I washed the towels the children had soaked and folded them neatly in the laundry room.
And all the while, one impossible thought followed me through Dominic Moretti’s mansion.
He had been crying.
Dominic Moretti.
The man whose name could empty a restaurant booth without anyone being asked to move.
The man who could silence a room merely by walking into it.
The man whose employees never looked him directly in the eye for too long.
He had closed himself inside his study and cried after hearing my daughter say his son was always sad.
I told myself it was none of my business.
That was the first rule of working for powerful people.
See nothing.
Hear nothing.
Ask nothing.
My daughter, unfortunately, had never learned that rule.
“Mommy?”
I looked up from folding linens.
Lily stood in the doorway wearing one of Leo’s oversized sweaters over her little dress.
The sleeves covered her hands.
“Where did you get that?”
“Leo gave it to me.”
“Lily.”
“He said I was cold.”
Behind her stood Leo.
His dark hair was still damp from the kitchen disaster, and his expression carried the familiar caution I had come to recognize.
At six years old, Leo Moretti already knew how to enter a room without making noise.
Children should not know how to do that.
“Sorry, Isabella,” he whispered.
“I asked her to put it on.”
I softened immediately.
“It’s okay.”
Lily waddled toward me in the giant sweater.
“Big brother Leo says his daddy is angry.”
Leo looked at the floor.
“Lily, sweetheart—”
“He thinks his daddy doesn’t like him.”
My hands stopped.
Leo’s face turned red.
“Lily!”
She blinked innocently.
“What?
You said it.”
Leo looked as though he wanted the floor to swallow him.
I knelt.
“Come here, Leo.”
He hesitated.
Then came closer.
“Your father loves you.”
It was the sort of thing adults told children automatically.
But as soon as the words left my mouth, I wondered whether I had any right to say them.
Leo’s eyes lifted to mine.
“Then why doesn’t he want me near him?”
The question pierced deeper than I expected.
“He works a lot.”
“That’s what Mrs.
Callahan says.”
Mrs.
Callahan was Dominic’s elderly cook, who had worked for the Moretti family longer than I had been alive.
Leo twisted his fingers together.
“He used to read to me.”
My chest tightened.
“When?”
“Before Mommy died.”
The room seemed suddenly quieter.
I knew Dominic was a widower.
Everyone who worked in the house knew that much.
His wife, Elena, had died three years earlier.
No one ever spoke about how.
There were no photographs of her downstairs.
No portraits.
No wedding pictures.
Nothing.
It was as if a woman had lived here, given birth to Dominic’s child, and then been deliberately erased.
Leo glanced toward the hallway.
“Daddy used to make pancakes.”
I smiled despite myself.
“Your father?”
Leo nodded seriously.
“They were bad.”
Lily gasped.
“Bad pancakes?”
“Very bad.”
For the first time, Leo smiled.
“Mommy said he cooked like a criminal.”
I nearly laughed.
Lily did laugh.
Very loudly.
Then a voice came from the doorway.
“She said worse than that.”
All three of us froze.
Dominic stood there.
His suit jacket was gone.
His sleeves were rolled to his elbows.
His eyes were slightly red.
If I had not known what I had heard earlier, I might not have noticed.
Leo’s smile disappeared instantly.
Dominic saw it.
Something hardened in his jaw.
“Leo.”
“Yes, sir.”
I hated hearing him call his father that.
Dominic apparently hated it too.
“Don’t call me sir.”
Leo looked confused.
“You told me to be respectful.”
“To adults.
I’m your father.”
“Yes…”
He struggled.
“Yes, Dad.”
Dominic glanced at Lily drowning inside the sweater.
“Is that yours?”
“No,” Lily announced.
“Leo gave it to me because he is nice.”
Dominic’s mouth almost moved.
Almost.
Then he looked at me.
“Isabella.
A word.”
My stomach dropped.
“Of course.”
I followed him into the hallway.
He waited until we were beyond the children’s hearing.
“If Leo says anything about his mother, you tell me.”
His voice was quiet.
Not threatening.
That somehow made it worse.
“Anything?”
“Anything.”
“Mr.
Moretti, he’s a little boy.
Sometimes children need to talk.”
His eyes met mine.
“That wasn’t a suggestion.”
I should have nodded.
I should have remembered who signed my paycheck.
Instead, I thought of Leo asking why his father did not want him near.
“You’re frightening him.”
Dominic became perfectly still.
I knew immediately that I had gone too far.
“What did you say?”
My pulse hammered.
But something inside me refused to retreat.
“He becomes a different child when you walk into the room.”
His expression changed.
“You’re my employee.”
“Yes.”
“You clean this house.”
“Yes.”
“You do not tell me how to raise my son.”
“No.”
I swallowed.
“But someone should.”
Silence.
I actually wondered whether I had just destroyed my life.
Dominic stepped closer.
He did not raise his voice.
Men like Dominic did not need to.
“You know nothing about my family.”
“You’re right.”
“You know nothing about what happened here.”
“You’re right.”
“You know nothing about what I’ve done to keep that boy alive.”
That stopped me.
Alive?
Dominic seemed to realize he had said too much.
His face closed instantly.
I stared at him.
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing.”
“You said—”
“Forget it.”
Then he walked away.
But I could not forget it.
That night, the storm came.
Boston rain slammed against the mansion windows while thunder rolled over the city.
I should have gone home.
Normally Lily and I left by seven.
But one of Dominic’s drivers told me several streets were flooded, and Dominic ordered us to stay in one of the guest rooms.
Ordered.
Not offered.
That was how Dominic did kindness.
He made it sound like a threat.
At nine, I tucked Lily into the enormous bed.
She had spent another hour playing quietly with Leo.
Dominic had not complained.
That surprised me.
What surprised me more was what I saw when I went downstairs for water.
Dominic was in the kitchen.
Cooking.
I stopped in the doorway.
He wore dark trousers and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
Flour dusted one forearm.
A bowl sat on the counter.
I looked from him to the stove.
“Are you making pancakes?”
He glanced at me.
“Go back upstairs.”
“Those are pancakes.”
“Isabella.”
I covered a smile.
“Leo said they were terrible.”
Dominic gave me a long look.
“Leo talks too much around your daughter.”
“Children do that when they’re happy.”
The words slipped out before I could stop them.
Dominic looked down at the bowl.
For once, he did not reprimand me.
“He hasn’t been happy in a long time.”
There was no anger in his voice.
Only exhaustion.
I leaned against the counter.
“You heard what Lily said today.”
“Yes.”
“He doesn’t need much.”
“You think I don’t know that?”
“I think knowing and doing are different things.”
His eyes sharpened.
“You make a habit of speaking to your employers this way?”
“Only terrifying ones.”
He stared.
I immediately wished I could swallow the sentence.
Then something extraordinary happened.
Dominic Moretti laughed.
Not much.
Just one quiet breath of amusement.
But it was enough to make him look younger.
Human.
“I’m terrifying?”
“You know you are.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“Frequently?”
“Usually not twice by the same person.”
I was not sure whether he was joking.
Then he handed me a spoon.
“Taste this.”
I blinked.
“What?”
“The batter.”
“You’re asking your housekeeper to protect your son from your cooking?”
“I’m asking someone who apparently has no fear for her own survival.”
I tasted it.
It was awful.
I tried not to react.
Dominic noticed.
“How bad?”
“Do you want the respectful answer?”
“No.”
“Leo was generous.”
His eyebrows rose.
“It’s terrible.”
He looked almost offended.
“You’re sure?”
“There is enough salt in that bowl to preserve a body.”
Dominic stared at the batter.
Then at me.
Then, unexpectedly, he laughed again.
This time louder.
And from the hallway came a tiny voice.
“Daddy?”
Dominic froze.
Leo stood barefoot in his pajamas.
Lily was beside him, dragging a blanket behind her.
Apparently neither child had been asleep.
Leo looked at his father with astonishment.
“You’re making pancakes.”
Dominic’s expression shifted.
I could almost see the instinct to retreat behind the wall again.
Then Lily climbed onto a chair.
“I want bad pancakes.”
“Lily,” I warned.
“What?
Leo said they’re famous.”
That did it.
Leo giggled.
Dominic stared at his son.
And slowly, unbelievably, smiled.
“Get the flour,” he said.
Leo’s eyes widened.
“Me?”
“You.”
The next twenty minutes changed the entire house.
Leo cracked an egg onto the floor.
Lily poured half a cup of flour down the front of her pajamas.
Dominic burned the first pancake.
Then the second.
By the third, even Mrs.
Callahan had wandered downstairs in her robe, taken one look at the kitchen, crossed herself, and muttered, “Elena would haunt us all if she could see this.”
Dominic went silent.
So did Leo.
Mrs.
Callahan seemed to realize her mistake.
But Lily looked around.
“Who is Elena?”
Nobody answered.
Leo whispered, “My mommy.”
“Oh.”
Lily considered this.
“Is she in heaven?”
Leo nodded.
Lily leaned toward him.
“My daddy is there too.”
My breath caught.
Dominic looked at me sharply.
I rarely spoke about Lily’s father.
There was little worth saying.
Marco had died before Lily was born.
A late-night robbery.
Wrong place, wrong time.
At least, that was what the police had told me.
Lily reached for Leo’s hand.
“Maybe they’re friends.”
Leo looked at her.
“Your daddy and my mommy?”
“Yes.”
He seemed to think seriously.
“Maybe.”
Then he smiled again.
Dominic stared at them.
And something in his face broke.
Not visibly enough for the children.
But enough for me.
Later, after the children finally fell asleep in Leo’s room, I found Dominic standing alone in the library.
He held a glass of whiskey but had not touched it.
“You should sleep,” he said without turning around.
“So should you.”
“I don’t sleep much.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“Housekeepers notice too much.”
“Mafia bosses apparently make terrible pancakes.”
That earned me no smile this time.
He stood before the fireplace, looking into the flames.
“You said Lily’s father died.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
I hesitated.
“A robbery.”
“When?”
“Four years ago.”
He turned.
“Four?”
“Lily was born after.”
“His name?”
Something about the way he asked made me uneasy.
“Why?”
“Conversation.”
“You don’t make conversation.”
His gaze remained on mine.
“What was his name?”
I should have refused.
Instead, I said, “Marco Bellini.”
The glass slipped from Dominic’s hand.
It shattered against the hardwood.
For one stunned second, neither of us moved.
Then Dominic looked at me as though I had become a ghost.
“What did you say?”
I stepped backward.
“Marco Bellini.”
His face lost all color.
“You knew Marco?”
“Of course I knew him.
He was Lily’s father.”
“No.”
The word came out too fast.
Too sharp.
“Dominic?”
He crossed the room.
“When did you meet him?”
“Why does that matter?”
“When?”
“Five years ago.”
“Where?”
“At a restaurant where I worked.”
His breathing changed.
This was no longer curiosity.
This was fear.
“Did he ever talk about me?”
“No.”
“The Moretti family?”
“No.”
“Did he ever tell you what he did?”
“He worked in shipping.”
Dominic closed his eyes.
My stomach dropped.
“He didn’t work in shipping.”
The room became cold despite the fire.
“What are you talking about?”
Dominic walked to the study doors and locked them.
The sound of the bolt sliding into place terrified me.
“Unlock that.”
“I need you to listen.”
“No.
You need to tell me why you know Marco.”
His eyes darkened.
“Because Marco Bellini worked for me.”
I stared at him.
“No.”
“He was one of my men.”
“No.”
“He handled accounts, deliveries, information.”
“That’s impossible.”
“It isn’t.”
“Marco hated criminals.”
Dominic’s expression twisted painfully.
“Marco was a criminal.”
The words struck like a slap.
I shook my head.
“You’re lying.”
“I wish I were.”
“He was killed in a robbery.”
“No.”
I felt the ground disappear beneath me.
Dominic stepped toward me.
“Isabella.”
“No.”
“Marco wasn’t robbed.”
“Stop.”
“He was targeted.”
My throat closed.
“By who?”
Dominic said nothing.
And suddenly I understood.
“You?”
His face changed.
I stepped back.
“You killed him.”
“No.”
“You killed him!”
“I did not.”
“You just said he worked for you!”
“I said he worked for me.
I didn’t say I ordered his death.”
“Then who did?”
Dominic looked toward the door.
As though even inside his own mansion, he feared someone might hear.
“Marco discovered someone inside my organization was feeding information to a rival family.”
My hands trembled.
“He came to me.”
“When?”
“Three days before he died.”
I could barely breathe.
“What did he say?”
“That whoever was betraying me had access to my house.”
“To your house?”
Dominic nodded.
“He believed Elena was in danger.”
The fire crackled between us.
“Elena.”
“My wife.”
My skin went cold.
“What does this have to do with Marco?”
Dominic’s voice became rough.
“Everything.”
He turned away.
“The night Marco died, Elena was supposed to meet him.”
“Why?”
“He had proof.”
“Proof of what?”
“Who the traitor was.”
I stared at him.
“And did he give it to her?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because he never reached her.”
My throat tightened.
“Because he was killed.”
“Yes.”
“Then Elena died three years ago.”
Dominic did not answer.
A terrible realization began forming.
“Was she murdered too?”
His silence was the answer.
“Oh my God.”
“She wasn’t sick,” Dominic said.
“There was no accident.
Someone entered this house while I was away.”
His voice cracked.
“I found her upstairs.”
I could not speak.
“The police report was false.
The story everyone heard was false.
I made sure of it.”
“Why?”
“Because whoever killed her believed she had Marco’s evidence.”
“And did she?”
“I never found it.”
He looked toward the ceiling.
Toward Leo’s room.
“I thought they would come for my son next.”
Suddenly everything about Dominic made terrible sense.
The distance.
The coldness.
Leo being kept away.
A father teaching his child not to cling to him.
Not because he did not love him.
Because he was terrified love itself could paint a target on the boy’s back.
“You pushed him away to protect him,” I whispered.
Dominic’s expression hardened.
“I taught him to survive.”
“You taught him to think his father didn’t love him.”
His eyes flashed.
“Better unloved than dead.”
The words echoed through the room.
I stared at him.
“Do you really believe that?”
“Yes.”
He answered immediately.
Then his face betrayed him.
“No.”
The word came more quietly.
“No,” he repeated.
He sat heavily in the chair beside the fire.
For the first time since I had known him, Dominic Moretti looked defeated.
“I don’t know anymore.”
I remained silent.
“I thought distance would protect him.
Routine.
Guards.
Rules.
No attachments anyone could exploit.”
“And now?”
He looked toward the ceiling again.
“Now a three-year-old girl walks into my house and makes my son laugh.”
Despite everything, my eyes burned.
“And suddenly I remember what he sounded like before Elena died.”
He rubbed a hand over his face.
“I forgot.”
That hurt worse than anything else he had said.
“I forgot my own son’s laugh.”
I sat across from him.
Neither of us spoke for several moments.
Then one question returned.
“Why did you react when I said Marco’s name?”
Dominic looked at me.
“Because there was one thing Marco told me before he died.”
“What?”
“He said that if anything happened to him, I should find Isabella.”
My heart stopped.
“What?”
“He never gave me a last name.”
I stared at him.
“He said, ‘Find Isabella.
She has what they’re looking for.’”
The room tilted.
“That makes no sense.”
“I spent months looking.”
“I didn’t have anything.”
“You might not know that you do.”
“I lived with him.
I would know.”
“Would you?”
I thought of Marco.
His quiet smile.
The nights he came home exhausted.
His insistence that I never ask questions about work.
The old leather box he kept in our closet.
The necklace he gave me before he died.
My hand instinctively rose to my throat.
Dominic noticed.
His eyes narrowed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Isabella.”
I touched the chain beneath my blouse.
The necklace was simple.
A small silver oval.
Marco had given it to me one week before his death.
He had told me never to take it off.
I had thought it was sentimental.
I still wore it every day.
Dominic stood.
“What is around your neck?”
I stepped away.
“A necklace.”
“Let me see it.”
“No.”
“Isabella.”
“It belonged to Marco.”
That was all I needed to say.
Dominic’s face changed.
I pulled the pendant free.
He stared at it.
Then whispered something in Italian.
“What?”
“That isn’t jewelry.”
I looked down.
“It’s a locket.”
“No.”
He stepped closer.
“That symbol.”
There was a tiny engraving along the edge.
Three lines surrounding a crown.
I had never thought anything of it.
“What does it mean?”
Dominic looked genuinely frightened now.
“It was Elena’s.”
I stopped breathing.
“No.”
“I gave it to her.”
“You’re wrong.”
“I’m not.”
He reached toward it but stopped before touching me.
“The night Elena died, it was gone.”
My mind raced.
“Then why did Marco give it to me?”
Dominic looked into my eyes.
“Because Marco reached Elena before he died.”
“But you said—”
“I said he never reached the meeting.”
Dominic’s face had gone completely still.
“He must have seen her earlier.”
A floorboard creaked outside the study.
Dominic’s head snapped toward the door.
Instantly, the grieving father vanished.
The mafia boss returned.
He raised one finger to his lips.
Someone was in the hallway.
Dominic silently opened a drawer beside the desk and removed a pistol.
My blood ran cold.
The footsteps stopped outside.
Then came a gentle knock.
“Daddy?”
Dominic exhaled.
He put the gun down and unlocked the door.
Leo stood there clutching his stuffed bear.
“Bad dream.”
Dominic hesitated.
Then knelt.
“Come here.”
Leo stared at him as though he had been offered the entire world.
Then ran into his arms.
Dominic held him.
Really held him.
Leo buried his face in his father’s neck.
I looked away.
And that was when Lily appeared at the end of the hallway.
She was sleepy and barefoot.
“Mommy?”
I went to her.
But as I lifted her, her tiny fingers caught the silver pendant.
“Ouch, careful.”
Lily looked at it.
Then frowned.
“I know this.”
Dominic and I exchanged a look.
“What did you say?” he asked.
Lily pointed at the engraved symbol.
“I saw it.”
My heart began hammering.
“Where, sweetheart?”
She yawned.
“In the picture.”
“What picture?”
“The man’s picture.”
Dominic stepped closer.
“What man?”
Lily rested her head on my shoulder.
“The man who watches us.”
Every hair on my arms rose.
I held her tighter.
“What man watches us?”
“The one outside our window.”
The house became silent.
Dominic’s face transformed.
“When?”
Lily rubbed her eyes.
“At home.”
I felt suddenly sick.
“What does he look like?”
“He wears a black hat.”
Dominic was already reaching for his phone.
“Leo, go to your room.”
“But—”
“Now.”
Leo ran.
Dominic made three rapid calls.
Within minutes, men were moving through the house.
Orders were being whispered.
Cars started outside.
Dominic turned to me.
“You and Lily are not going home.”
“What?”
“You stay here.”
“Dominic—”
“Someone has been watching you.”
“She’s three.
She could be imagining—”
“She recognized that symbol.”
I looked at the pendant.
He was right.
My stomach twisted.
Lily had never seen it outside my necklace.
Or had she?
Dominic took us upstairs.
For the first time, I saw a section of the mansion I had never entered.
A reinforced door.
Security monitors.
Weapons.
A safe room.
This was not just a wealthy man’s house.
It was a fortress.
Dominic locked us inside with Leo.
“Stay here.”
“Where are you going?”
“To find out who has been watching your house.”
“And if you find him?”
He looked at me.
I did not ask again.
Hours passed.
Leo and Lily eventually fell asleep together on the sofa.
I sat watching the security screens.
At 2:17 a.m., Dominic returned.
Blood stained his white shirt.
I stood immediately.
“Oh my God.”
“It isn’t mine.”
That did not make me feel better.
“Did you find him?”
“Yes.”
“Who was he?”
Dominic looked toward the sleeping children.
Then at me.
“One of my men.”
My chest tightened.
“Someone you trust?”
“Trusted.”
“Why was he watching us?”
“He was told to.”
“By whom?”
Dominic did not answer.
“Dominic.”
“He died before he gave me the name.”
I felt dizzy.
“So we know nothing.”
“We know one thing.”
“What?”
He looked at the necklace again.
“They know you have it.”
I clutched the pendant.
“What is inside it?”
“We’re about to find out.”
He brought us to his study.
Using a tiny blade, Dominic pressed beneath the engraved crown.
A hidden seam opened.
I stared.
Inside the pendant was not a photograph.
It was a tiny storage card.
Modern.
Small enough to disappear beneath a fingernail.
Dominic removed it.
“Elena hid this.”
“Or Marco did.”
He inserted it into a secure laptop.
The screen remained black for several seconds.
Then a folder appeared.
Inside were dozens of files.
Bank records.
Photographs.
Recorded phone calls.
Names.
Politicians.
Police officers.
Businessmen.
Members of Dominic’s own organization.
His face grew darker with every document.
Then we found a video.
The file was dated four years earlier.
Three days before Marco’s death.
Dominic clicked it.
The screen flickered.
Marco appeared.
My knees nearly gave out.
He looked exactly as I remembered.
Dark hair.
Tired eyes.
That crooked smile.
My Marco.
I touched the screen.
His voice filled the room.
“If someone is watching this, I’m probably dead.”
My eyes filled.
Dominic remained motionless.
Marco continued.
“Dominic, if it’s you, listen carefully.
Elena knows part of the truth.
Isabella knows none of it.
Keep it that way unless you have no choice.”
I covered my mouth.
Marco looked directly into the camera.
“The traitor is closer to you than you think.”
Dominic leaned forward.
Marco said a name.
The audio vanished.
Static swallowed it.
“No,” Dominic hissed.
He replayed the moment.
Again.
Nothing.
The most important word had been corrupted.
Marco continued.
“You’ll think I’m lying when you find out.
You’ll want to kill me even though I’m already dead.”
Dominic’s expression tightened.
“But before you do anything, check Leo’s birth records.”
Dominic stopped breathing.
I stared at him.
“What?”
He did not answer.
The video continued.
“And Isabella…”
Marco looked away from the camera.
For the first time, fear entered his face.
“If our daughter ever ends up anywhere near the Moretti family…”
My entire body went cold.
“…take her and run.”
The video ended.
Neither of us moved.
“What did he mean?”
Dominic stared at the black screen.
“What did he mean about Lily?”
“I don’t know.”
“And Leo’s birth records?”
He stood abruptly.
“Dominic.”
He left the room.
I followed him through the dark house.
He entered his office, unlocked a cabinet, and removed a thick folder.
Leo Moretti.
Birth certificate.
Hospital records.
Blood type.
Dominic’s hands trembled as he flipped through the pages.
Then he stopped.
His face went white.
“What?”
He handed me a document.
A blood test.
I did not understand the numbers.
“What am I looking at?”
Dominic pointed.
“My blood type is O negative.”
I stared.
“Elena was O positive.”
“So?”
He looked at me.
“Leo is AB positive.”
I said nothing.
I did not need to understand genetics perfectly to understand Dominic’s expression.
“That means…”
“Leo cannot be my biological son.”
The words barely came out.
For a long moment, the entire world seemed to stop.
Upstairs, somewhere in the mansion, Leo slept beside Lily.
The little boy who called Dominic Dad.
The little boy Dominic had spent three years protecting from enemies.
The little boy whose mother had been murdered because of secrets tied to Marco.
Dominic sank into a chair.
“No.”
I watched something terrible take shape behind his eyes.
He opened the laptop again.
There was one more file.
Locked.
The filename contained only two words.
LEO BELLINI.
I stopped breathing.
Dominic stared at it.
Then at me.
“No,” I whispered.
He opened the file.
A scanned hospital document appeared.
Elena Moretti.
Mother.
The second parent field had been altered.
But beneath the digital correction, another name was faintly visible.
Marco Bellini.
I stumbled backward.
“No.”
Dominic did not move.
My dead husband had fathered Dominic Moretti’s son.
Leo and Lily were brother and sister.
The truth struck so violently that I could hardly stand.
Upstairs, the children who had taken each other’s hands from the moment they met were not strangers.
They shared blood.
Dominic looked destroyed.
But before either of us could speak, every light in the mansion went out.
Darkness swallowed the room.
An alarm began screaming.
Dominic was on his feet instantly.
Gun drawn.
“Stay behind me.”
Glass shattered downstairs.
Men shouted.
Then gunfire erupted through the house.
I screamed Lily’s name.
We ran.
Dominic shouted into his radio.
No answer.
More shots.
By the time we reached the upstairs hallway, Leo’s bedroom door was open.
The bed was empty.
“Leo!”
Dominic charged inside.
No children.
My entire body went numb.
“Lily!”
A shadow moved at the far end of the hall.
Dominic fired.
The figure vanished.
Then I saw something on the floor.
Lily’s stuffed rabbit.
Beside it lay Leo’s bear.
Dominic picked them up.
His face became something I had never seen before.
Not anger.
Not fear.
Something far worse.
Then his phone rang.
Unknown number.
He answered.
“Where are they?”
A distorted voice replied.
“You finally opened Marco’s files.”
Dominic’s eyes went cold.
“If you touch those children—”
The voice laughed.
“You still don’t understand, Dominic.”
I moved closer.
“What?”
Dominic demanded.
“You think the secret is that Leo belongs to Marco?”
My heart stopped.
The caller continued.
“That was only the beginning.”
Dominic gripped the phone.
“Who are you?”
“You should ask Isabella.”
He looked at me.
I shook my head.
I had no idea.
The voice lowered.
“Ask her why Marco chose her.”
My blood turned to ice.
Then came the final words.
“And ask her who Lily’s real father is.”
The call ended.
Dominic slowly lowered the phone.
From somewhere outside the mansion came the roar of an engine disappearing into the storm.
He looked at me.
And for the first time since I had entered the Moretti house, the most feared man in Boston looked at me as though I were the one he should be afraid of.
…If you want to know what happened next, please type “YES” and like for more.
Source: Stories of Destiny · Thanh Thanh
