Chapter 1 - The Echo of Footsteps
The crayon drawing remained on Vincent Romano’s mahogany desk long after midnight. Beneath the harsh glow of his green-shaded banker’s lamp, the crooked red and black strokes seemed to mock the absolute control he maintained over every aspect of his criminal empire.
HOME.
Vincent picked up the paper, his thumb brushing over the clumsy stick figure representing himself. Four years of unrelenting silence—four years of living behind reinforced steel doors, guarded by men whose loyalty was bought with fear—had been pierced by a four-year-old child carrying a butterfly hairbrush.
A soft knock rattled the outer office door.
"Enter," Vincent said, his voice cold and steady.
Grant Keller stepped into the room, holding a leather folder containing shipping manifests from the North End docks. His eyes flickered briefly toward the desk, noting the crayon drawing before meeting his boss’s gaze.
"The container from Palermo cleared customs, Boss," Grant reported smoothly. "No discrepancies. The O’Connor family hasn't made a move regarding the South Boston territory either."
"They're waiting," Vincent said, laying the drawing back down. "They think grief has made me soft. They think locking myself in this estate means I've forgotten how to handle a war."
"Nobody thinks you're soft, Vincent," Grant replied quietly, stepping closer. "Though I have to admit, seeing Boston’s most feared executioner master the art of hair-braiding was not on my bingo card for this decade."
Vincent’s jaw tightened. "Watch yourself, Grant."
"I'm just saying," Grant continued with a faint smirk that didn't reach his eyes. "The staff is talking. Claire Dawson tried to hand in her resignation to the head housekeeper twenty minutes ago."
Vincent’s head snapped up. "On whose authority?"
"Hers. She thinks she crossed a line bringing the girl into your office. She's terrified you're going to throw them out on the street—or worse."
Vincent stood up, towering over the desk. The grief that constantly clawed at his chest—the raw, festering wound left by Madeline’s death—flared with a strange, unfamiliar warmth. He remembered the feel of Rosie’s fine, tangled hair, the smell of strawberry shampoo, and the way the little girl had trusted him without hesitation.
"Tell the housekeeper to tear up her resignation," Vincent commanded, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous register. "And tell Claire Dawson she remains employed under one strict condition: she keeps her daughter out of my hallways, and nobody touches her contract."
May you like
Grant studied Vincent for a long moment, reading the subtle shifts in posture that lesser men missed. "Consider it done, Boss."
As Grant turned to leave, Vincent walked to the window, looking out over the rain-slicked gardens of the estate. Somewhere upstairs, in the small servant quarters above the carriage house, a little girl was sleeping. And for the first time in four years, the darkness inside the Romano house felt slightly less absolute.
