Chapter 1 - The Echo in the MirrorThe cool marble of the Back Bay restaurant’s restroom floor felt distant beneath Dominic Moretti’s handmade Italian leather shoes, as if the ground itself had dropped away.
Yet here, standing in front of a brushed-nickel sink beneath warm, amber sconces, his reflection stared back at him with an expression of sheer, unadulterated terror.
Four pairs of dark, penetrating eyes blinked back at him from four identical faces.
They were miniature replicas of his childhood self. The sharp jawline, the straight bridge of the nose, the distinctive, stubborn crease between the eyebrows that appeared whenever concentration took over—it was like looking through a time-bending glass into a past he had buried six years ago.
The boy standing closest to the paper towel dispenser—the one who had just mirrored his exact nervous habit of rubbing the back of his neck—tilted his head.
“Mister?” the boy asked, his voice bright, innocent, and carrying the crisp, unmistakable cadence of a Boston accent. “Are you okay? You look like you just saw a ghost.”
Dominic’s throat felt dry as bone. He swallowed hard, trying to force his vocal cords to cooperate. He had a private conservatory overlooking the Charles River waiting for him. Sloane Barrett, glittering with pearls and family ambition, was currently pacing beneath a glass roof, expecting a 4.5-carat diamond ring and a public coronation of their two dynasties.
Instead, Dominic was trapped in a restaurant restroom, staring at a quartet of carbon-copy heirs.
“I’m fine,” Dominic finally managed, his voice a low, raspy gravel. He crouched down slightly to match their eye level, though his knees trembled. “What are your names? Are you... are you here alone?”
The second boy, wearing a matching navy sweater identical to his brother’s, shook his head. “We’re not alone. Mom went to check on our table because Leo had to use the bathroom super bad, but he took forever washing his hands.”
“Leo,” Dominic whispered, testing the name on his tongue. It felt terrifyingly familiar, like a half-remembered prayer.
Before he could ask another question, the sharp, melodic sound of heels clicked rapidly against the tiled hallway outside. A soft, breathless voice rang out through the open doorway.
“Boys? Leo, Julian, Noah, Lucas! If you don’t get out of that restroom right this second, we are losing our table, and I am not waiting another hour for pizza.”
Every drop of blood drained from Dominic’s face.
It was a voice that had haunted his dreams, whispered in his ear during sleepless nights, and echoed in the empty, echoing halls of his Back Bay mansion for six long years.
Clara.
His chest seized. The diamond ring in his jacket pocket—cold, heavy, and useless—seemed to burn against his ribs.
The four boys didn't wait. At the sound of their mother’s voice, they scurried past him in a blur of navy knitwear and khaki pants, calling out, “We’re coming, Mom! We met a really nice man who looks just like—!”
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Dominic didn't let them finish. Pushing off the sink with shaking hands, he lunged toward the doorway, stepping out of the restroom and into the dimly lit, upscale corridor of the restaurant.
And there she was.
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