Chapter 1 - The Mirror Quartet
The polished beige marble of the restroom corridor reflected the muted glow of recessed halogen fixtures. In an alcove lined with dark mahogany and brushed gold brassware, the air smelled of cedarwood, expensive citrus cologne, and the distant, muffled cadence of a jazz trio playing in the main dining room of Il Trono.
Dominic Moretti stepped through the doorway, his stride measured and commanding. At thirty-seven, the head of the Moretti family carried the weight of an empire on his shoulders, framed by a tailored charcoal-black suit, an open-collar black silk shirt, and the cold glint of a silver wristwatch. A rugged shadow of stubble accented his sharp, predatory jawline, but his dark brown eyes were clouded with distraction.
Inside the inner pocket of his jacket rested a velvet box containing a three-carat diamond ring. Tonight was supposed to be a strategic dinner—a calculated political alliance with the daughter of a rival syndicate to cement control over the Boston docks.
Then Dominic froze.
Standing by the gold faucets were four young boys. They couldn't have been older than first-graders. All four had identical features: tousled, wavy chestnut-brown hair, sharp little jawlines, and piercing dark brown eyes that struck Dominic like an electric shock. They were dressed immaculately in matching ivory blazers with navy piping and gold crests, white pressed shirts, navy-and-gold striped ties, tailored dark trousers, and polished black oxfords.
As Dominic stopped dead in his tracks, all four boys turned simultaneously.
The tallest boy on the left frowned, reached up with his left hand, and pushed his hair straight back off his forehead with an impatient, sharp flick of his wrist.
Dominic’s breath seized in his lungs. It was his own childhood tick—the exact unconscious gesture his late father used to reprimand him for at the dinner table thirty years ago.
The silence between the man and the four boys stretched, heavy and surreal. Dominic slowly sank to one knee on the cold marble floor. His towering, broad-shouldered presence lowered until he was at eye level with them. He looked into four faces that were uncanny, miniaturized mirrors of his own reflection.
"What are your names?" Dominic asked, his deep baritone catching in his throat.
The boy with the hair habit puffed his chest out. "I'm Leo. That's Lucas, Liam, and Lorenzo."
Dominic’s hands trembled against his knees. "How old are you?"
"Six," Lucas piped up innocently, holding up five fingers, then quickly adding a thumb from his other hand to get the count right. "We turned six last month."
Six years.
The room seemed to tilt on its axis. Six years ago, Dominic had walked through the smoking ruins of a safehouse on the North Shore, convinced that the only woman who had ever held his heart had perished in the fire. He had spent six years mourning a phantom, building a brutal fortress around his soul, turning himself into a monster because tenderness had died with her.
His trembling hand slid instinctively inside his charcoal jacket, his fingertips grazing the velvet box meant for another woman.
"Boys? Where are you? The breadsticks are getting cold."
The soft, melodic voice echoed from the hallway, stopping the blood in Dominic’s veins.
The four boys immediately spun toward the entrance. "Mommy!"
Stepping into the warm perimeter of the doorway was a woman whose face had haunted Dominic’s nightmares for over two thousand nights. Her rich, dark chestnut hair was swept into an elegant, loose updo, leaving soft tendrils framing high cheekbones and fair, flawless skin. She wore an ivory tweed dress beneath a matching cream blazer, a gold-chain shoulder bag resting against her hip.
Elena.
Dominic slowly rose from the floor, his massive frame uncoiling to his full six-foot-two height.
Elena’s gaze drifted from her sons toward the man standing over them. The casual smile on her lips vanished instantly. The color drained from her cheeks until she was as white as the marble beneath her heels. Her gold-chain purse slipped from her shoulder, hitting the floor with a muted clink.
Across the quiet restroom alcove, their eyes locked.
May you like
Neither moved. Neither spoke. The four boys watched in puzzled silence, their identical gazes darting between their mother’s terrified expression and the stranger whose hand remained frozen inside his jacket, holding a ring that had suddenly lost all meaning.
Then, from the corridor behind Elena, the distinct sound of a gun's slide being racked echoed off the polished stone walls.
