Chapter 1 - The Six Words That Silenced the Estate
The Hug Nobody Had Seen Coming
Dante Falcone stared at my three-year-old daughter as though she had just pointed a gun at his chest.
Sophia stood in the middle of the marble corridor with both arms lifted.
“Hug?”
Nobody moved.
Nobody breathed.
Even the security guards seemed to forget they were supposed to protect the man standing in front of them.
Dante slowly lowered his eyes to her little hands.
Then to her face.
Then to the locked sitting room behind him.
The room had been closed for eighteen months.
No servant entered it.
No cleaner dusted it.
No one even touched the brass handle unless Dante ordered it.
It had belonged to Carmela Falcone.
His wife.
His dead wife.
I swallowed hard.
“Mr. Falcone,” I whispered, “please excuse her. She doesn’t know what she’s saying.”
Dante didn’t look at me.
His voice was almost unnaturally quiet.
“What did she mean?”
Sophia answered before I could.
“The pretty lady.”
A guard shifted.
Dante’s jaw tightened.
“What pretty lady?”
Sophia pointed at the locked door.
“The one who told me.”
My stomach dropped.
Dante finally looked directly at me.
For the first time since I had started working at the estate, I saw something behind his famous cold expression.
Fear.
Not fear of violence.
Something older.
Something personal.
“Rosa,” he said.
“Yes, sir?”
“How long has your daughter been saying this?”
“Today.”
It was a lie.
Sophia had started talking about the pretty lady three mornings ago.
I had assumed she was talking about a cartoon princess.
Dante crouched.
The sight alone nearly stopped my heart.
Men like Dante Falcone did not kneel.
Not for anyone.
He lowered himself until he was eye level with Sophia.
“Where did you see her?”
Sophia studied his face.
Then she reached up and touched the faint scar beside his eyebrow.
“She has one here too.”
Dante went pale.
I had seen that scar before.
Every person in the estate had.
It came from the ambush that killed Carmela.
But Carmela had been shot in the chest.
She had not been injured on her face.
Dante stood so quickly the movement startled Sophia.
“Everyone out.”
The guards exchanged looks.
“Sir?”
“I said out.”
Within seconds, the hallway emptied.
The door at the end closed.
I was left alone with Dante and my daughter.
He looked at Sophia.
Then at me.
“You said she’s been here for only two weeks.”
“Yes.”
“Has she entered the west wing?”
“No.”
“Has she seen photographs of Carmela?”
“No.”
He stared at me for a long moment.
Then he unlocked his wife’s room.
The click of the lock sounded like a gunshot.
I instinctively pulled Sophia closer.
Dante opened the door.
Dust floated through the warm corridor light.
The room looked untouched.
A cream sofa.
A grand piano.
A bookshelf.
A vase with dead roses.
And on the wall, a large portrait of Carmela.
Sophia gasped.
“That’s her.”
Dante stopped.
“What?”
Sophia pointed at the portrait.
“The pretty lady.”
I felt every hair rise on my arms.
Dante turned toward the portrait.
His expression became unreadable.
“Did she talk to you?”
Sophia nodded.
“When?”
“At bedtime.”
I almost laughed from nervousness.
“Sweetheart, you were dreaming.”
Sophia frowned.
“No.”
Dante crouched again.
“What did she say?”
Sophia looked thoughtful.
Then she repeated something so softly I almost missed it.
“Tell Dante to stop looking at the door.”
Dante froze.
His eyes immediately moved toward the doorway.
I stared at him.
“Why would she say that?”
Dante didn’t answer.
He stepped inside.
His attention shifted from the portrait to the desk.
Then the piano.
Then the bookshelves.
Finally, he walked to a small wooden box sitting near the window.
He opened it.
Empty.
His face changed.
“What was inside?” I asked.
Dante shut the box.
“Nothing.”
He walked toward the portrait.
Behind it was a small wall safe.
He opened that too.
Empty.
My mouth went dry.
“Someone took something?”
Dante didn’t answer.
Sophia slipped from my arms and walked around the room.
She stopped beside the piano.
Then she pointed underneath it.
“There.”
Dante looked.
A tiny red ribbon was caught beneath one of the legs.
He crouched and pulled it free.
His fingers trembled.
Just once.
But I saw it.
He stared at the ribbon.
“Carmela wore this.”
Sophia smiled.
“She gave it to me.”
Dante’s face drained of color.
“When?”
Sophia blinked.
“Yesterday.”
I suddenly heard a faint sound behind the bedroom wall.
Three knocks.
Dante raised his gun so fast I barely saw him draw it.
Sophia giggled.
“She’s knocking.”
The wall beside the portrait moved.
Only an inch.
There was a hidden compartment behind it.
Dante stared at the opening.
Then at my daughter.
Then at me.
May you like
And for the first time, the most feared man in Chicago whispered words that sounded almost like a prayer.
“She’s been trying to tell me.”
