Chapter 1 - LOCKDOWN AT THE ESTATE
The heavy oak doors of the Westchester estate shut with a sound like a vault closing. Outside, security lights flooded the twenty-acre grounds, turning the manicured lawns into a high-visibility zone. Inside, silence hung thick over the grand marble corridors.
I carried Lily up the rear staff staircase, holding her small body close against my chest. She had tucked her head into the crook of my neck, her thumb hooked gently into her mouth—a comforting habit she only returned to when she was overwhelmed. Her heart was beating fast against my ribs, but she wasn't crying. She didn't fully grasp that she had just altered the fate of the most powerful crime family in New York; she only knew she had protected her little friend Ethan.
"Clara."
I stopped on the landing, my hand tightening on the wooden banister. Dominic stood at the bottom of the stairs. He had shed his tuxedo jacket, revealing the dark gray vest beneath, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms. The quiet air around him felt charged, like the atmosphere right before a summer thunderstorm.
"Sir," I said, keeping my voice soft so as not to startle Lily. "Is Ethan alright?"
"Dr. Harris gave him an antihistamine preventative and ran full blood panels. He's sleeping," Dominic said. His voice was steady, but there was a razor-thin edge to his tone. He climbed two steps up, looking at my daughter. "She needs to talk to my head of security. Just five minutes."
A cold wave of fear washed through me. "Mr. Moretti, she’s three years old. She doesn't understand legal questions or interviews—"
"I’m not putting her in an interrogation room, Clara," Dominic interrupted, his dark eyes softening by a fraction. "I’m putting her in my study. With you. Frankie just needs to hear what she saw so we know what kind of shadow we’re hunting."
I hesitated, looking down at Lily. She opened her brown eyes and looked down at Dominic.
"Is Ethan okay, Mr. Dom'nic?" she asked in her small, clear voice.
Dominic looked up at her, an expression passing over his hardened face that I had never seen in six years of working under his roof—genuine tenderness. "He is okay, little one. Because of you."
Ten minutes later, we sat in Dominic’s dark mahogany library. Frankie, a broad-shouldered man with a jagged scar along his jaw who usually ran Dominic's exterior security detail, stood near the closed double doors. He held a small tablet, looking thoroughly out of his element as he tried not to look intimidating.
Dominic sat on the edge of the leather coffee table right in front of Lily, bringing himself down to her eye level.
"Lily," Dominic began softly, "can you tell me what the man looked like? The one in the cold room?"
Lily adjusted herself on my lap, resting her chin on my hand. "He was tall. Like Mr. Frankie. But he had silver shoes."
Frankie paused, his fingers hovering over the tablet screen. "Silver shoes?"
"Work boots," I clarified suddenly, the memory spiking through my mind like a needle. "The kitchen renovation crew that brought the spare ice carvers this morning—they wore high-visibility steel-toe work boots with reflective silver strips along the sides."
Dominic turned his head slowly toward Frankie. "The temporary catering crew."
"We checked their IDs at the front gate, Boss," Frankie said quickly, his face darkening. "Every single guy passed background check."
"Then someone used a fake identity," Dominic said. His voice dropped into a register that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. "Or someone inside gave them a badge."
Lily tugged on my sleeve. "Mommy, the man smelled like blue berries."
"Blueberries?" I asked, confused.
"No," Lily shook her head firmly. "The blue bottle. The soap you use for the brass handles."
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My blood ran cold. The chemical polish we used for the estate's antique brass fixtures was an industrial-grade solvent stored strictly in the basement supply room—a room locked with a keycard that only three housekeepers held.
Including me.
