Chapter 3 - The Shadow in the Walls
"Take them upstairs," I told Grace, my voice dropping into the flat, lethal cadence of a field commander. "The reinforced suite at the end of the north wing. Lock the deadbolts. Do not open that door for anyone except me. If you hear shooting, do not come down."
Grace didn't argue. She didn't panic. She gathered Sophie into her arms with practiced ease and took Olivia and Nora by their hands.
"Come on, sweethearts," Grace whispered softly. "We're going to play a game in the north room. We’re going to build the biggest blanket fort we can find."
Nora looked back at me over Grace's shoulder, her big brown eyes wide with fear. "Daddy?"
"Go with Grace, baby," I said, forcing my expression to soften. "Daddy has to take out the trash."
They vanished down the rear service corridor just as the heavy brass knocker on the front door struck three times.
I didn't immediately go to the door. I walked behind the heavy oak desk in the corner of the library. Beneath the center drawer was a hidden latch. I pressed it, and a velvet-lined compartment slid open silently. Inside rested a customized Kimber 1911 .45 caliber pistol. I checked the chamber, felt the reassuring weight of the cold steel, racked a round, and flicked the safety on. I slid it into the waistband of my trousers behind my back, concealed by my suit jacket.
Then I walked into the foyer just as Mrs. Donnelly opened the front door.
"Dominic!" Marcus’s voice boomed through the high-ceilinged entrance hall. "They told me you were in Queens until tomorrow morning. What happened? Did the docks clear early?"
He stepped across the threshold, radiating false warmth and absolute arrogance. He was forty-two, handsome in a rugged, slick way, with dark hair combed straight back and a smile that had fooled judges, police commissioners, and me.
Behind him stood two of his personal hitters—Enzo and Terry. Both were big men with bulge-heavy coats and dead eyes.
"Change of plans, Marcus," I said, descending the grand staircase with deliberate slowness. "Family business brought me home."
Marcus stopped at the base of the stairs, his eyes narrowing slightly as he took in my rumpled shirt and the coldness in my eyes. He had known me for fifteen years. He knew the difference between Dominic Romano irritated and Dominic Romano hunting.
"Everything alright with the girls?" Marcus asked, stepping closer. He raised his hands in a placating gesture. There it was. The left pinky. The silver wolf head sneered up at me, its emerald eyes glittering beneath the chandelier.
"They're fine," I said evenly. "Actually, better than fine. They spoke today."
A momentary glitch crossed Marcus’s face. It was faster than a heartbeat, but I was looking for it. A fractional twitch of his left eyelid. A micro-tightening of his jaw.
"They... spoke?" he asked, his voice losing its breezy charm. "All three of them?"
"All three," I said. I reached the bottom step and stopped, standing six inches taller than him, invading his space until his personal space evaporated. "Fourteen months of silence, Marcus. Gone in an instant. Just like that."
Marcus swallowed. His hand twitched toward his pocket, then stopped. "That's... Dominic, that's incredible news. God is good. What did they say? Did they ask for you?"
"They sang first," I said, staring directly into his pupils. "A song Isabelle used to sing to them when she put them to bed. Remember that song, Marcus? You were at the house often enough."
Marcus forced a chuckle, but his guards shifted behind him, their hands drifting toward their lapels.
"Sure, Dom. The sunshine song. Look, if you’re busy with them, I can come back tomorrow. We just had an issue with the Port Elizabeth container manifests. I thought we should go over it before the union reps wake up."
"The union reps can sleep," I said. "Come into the office, Marcus. Let’s have a drink. To celebrate my daughters finding their voices."
Marcus hesitated. He looked back at Enzo and Terry. "Boys, wait outside by the car."
"No," I countered smoothly, turning my back on them and walking toward the study—a deliberate show of vulnerability that I knew would keep him off-balance. "Bring them in. It’s cold outside. We’ve got an entire case of scotch to burn through."
Marcus lingered in the entryway for three long seconds. I could hear the gears turning in his traitorous head. He didn't know *what* the girls had said. He was trying to calculate whether they remembered him, whether they had named him, or whether they had simply muttered baby talk. He believed he was still the trusted brother. He believed his secret was safe beneath fourteen months of terror.
"Alright," Marcus said, following me into the den. "One drink. To the girls."
I stepped behind the bar and pulled out a bottle of twenty-five-year-old Macallan. I poured two heavy glasses, the amber liquid splashing against the crystal.
"You know, Marcus," I said, setting the glass on the counter in front of him, "I spent the last year thinking I knew who killed my wife. I thought it was Marcone. I killed seven of his people looking for a confession."
Marcus picked up the glass, swirling the liquor. His eyes were dark, watchful. "Marcone was a rat, Dominic. He deserved what he got anyway."
"He did," I agreed. "Except he didn't kill Isabelle."
Marcus froze with the glass two inches from his lips.
"No?" he murmured.
"No," I said, leaning over the bar, resting my forearms on the wood, my face inches from his. "The man who killed Isabelle was someone she knew. Someone who gave her an envelope full of offshore accounts and told her to keep her mouth shut about stolen shipping containers. Someone who put a gun to her head in front of our children and pulled the trigger."
The room went dead.
May you like
Enzo and Terry moved.
***
