Chapter 2 - The Table of Silence
The dining room of the Russo estate was built to impress foreign diplomats and syndicate bosses. A thirty-foot mahogany table sat beneath two massive crystal chandeliers, surrounded by tall velvet-upholstered chairs.
At 6:00 PM sharp, Dominic stepped into the dining room.
He had removed his dark suit jacket, rolling his white shirt sleeves up to his forearms. He sat at the head of the table.
Sitting on his left were his three daughters: seven-year-old Valentina, six-year-old Lucia, and four-year-old Mia. They wore matching floral cotton dresses that Elena had ironed earlier. Sitting across from them was Elena, wearing a simple beige blouse, quietly buttering a piece of freshly baked roll.
The atmosphere in the room was suffocatingly tense.
The moment Dominic sat down, the girls' cheerful chatter instantly vanished. Mia stared down at her silver fork, Lucia fiddled with her cloth napkin, and Valentina kept her eyes glued to her plate of roast chicken and vegetables.
Dominic cleared his throat, feeling a knot of anxiety tighten in his chest. "How... how was your afternoon, girls?"
Silence.
Valentina didn't look up. Lucia took a tiny, cautious bite of green bean.
Dominic looked across the table at Elena. His dark eyes held a silent, frustrated plea: Fix this.
Elena didn't immediately jump to his rescue. She took a slow sip of water, set her glass down, and looked gently at Valentina.
"Valentina," Elena said warmly, "did you want to tell your father about the butterfly you drew for the kitchen wall?"
Valentina’s small shoulders stiffened. She glanced up at Elena, her dark eyes wide with uncertainty, then flicked a fearful glance toward Dominic.
"It... it's a purple butterfly," Valentina whispered, her voice barely audible above the hum of the air conditioner. It was the first full sentence she had spoken to Dominic in over a year.
Dominic felt his heart hammer violently against his ribs. He leaned forward, careful to soften his harsh facial features as much as possible. "I saw it, Val. It's... it's very beautiful. Purple was your mother's favorite color."
Valentina’s small hands tightened into little fists under the table. "I know," she murmured softly. "Miss Elena said purple means brave."
Dominic looked at Elena, a flicker of surprise passing through him.
"In Spain," Elena explained with a faint, warm smile, "we say the purple butterfly carries secret prayers up to heaven. Valentina drew it so her mother could see it from the sky."
Dominic swallowed hard against a sudden lump in his throat. For fourteen months, his legal advisors and syndicate captains had told him to avoid bringing up Isabella's name around the girls, warning that it would trigger psychological relapses. Yet Elena had embraced Isabella's memory, weaving it into their daily lives like a comforting blanket instead of a forbidden shadow.
"It's a wonderful drawing, Valentina," Dominic said, his voice softer than any of his men had ever heard it. "I would like it if you drew one for my study door, too."
Valentina looked at him for three long seconds. Slowly, a tiny, hesitant smile tugged at the corner of her lips. She gave a small, quick nod.
Before Dominic could savor the moment, the heavy double doors of the dining room burst open.
Salvatore "The Viper" Moretti—Dominic’s underboss and long-time enforcer—strode into the room. Salvatore was a towering, broad-shouldered man in his late fifties with a scarred neck, slicked-back gray hair, and eyes like cold steel. Behind him stood two armed guards wearing dark suits.
"Dominic," Salvatore grunted, ignoring the dining setup completely. "We have a problem at the Brooklyn pier. The Valenti family just intercepted two of our cargo crates. Frankie is waiting in the war room."
The peaceful atmosphere smashed into a thousand pieces.
Mia instantly flinched, pulling her chair back and hiding her face against Elena’s waist. Lucia and Valentina shrank back into their chairs, their eyes filled with instant terror at the sight of the armed men and Salvatore’s aggressive posture.
Dominic’s eyes flared with a lethal, terrifying rage. He stood up slowly, his tall frame casting a long, imposing shadow over the table.
"Salvatore," Dominic said, his voice dropping into a register so dangerously low it made the air in the room feel twenty degrees colder. "What did I tell you about entering this house without knocking?"
Salvatore blinked, taken aback by the sheer hostility in his boss's voice. "Dominic, it's the Valentis. It's business—"
"I don't care if the Pope is waiting outside," Dominic growled, stepping around the table, his hand resting near his concealed shoulder holster. "Out. NOW."
Salvatore stared at Dominic, a flicker of deep irritation and confusion crossing his scarred face. He cast a sharp, contemptuous look at Elena and the three silent girls before backing out into the hallway.
Dominic turned back to the table, but the damage was already done. The girls were trembling, their tiny walls snapped firmly back into place.
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Elena looked up at Dominic. She didn't shout. She didn't scold him. But her dark eyes held a look of profound, painful disappointment.
"Excuse us, Mr. Russo," Elena said quietly, gathering the girls' hands. "I think it's time for bed."
