Chapter 2 - Shadows in the Blueprint
The words hung in the sunlit kitchen like a poison gas.
“The man who killed their mother is still inside this house.”
Dominic’s vision tunneled. For fourteen months, the NYPD and his own private intelligence network had assured him that Isabelle’s assassination was a professional hit ordered by the Russian Bratva—a retaliation for a dockland dispute in Queens. He had spent a year drowning Brooklyn in blood to avenge her, hunting down every low-level soldier connected to the Russian syndicate until their leadership begged for a truce.
And now, his own daughter, speaking for the first time in over a year, was suggesting the monster had been wearing a tailored suit at the dinner table all along.
“Sophie,” Dominic said, his voice cracking slightly despite his desperate attempt to keep it steady. He took a slow, measured step forward, holding his hands out palms-up to show he meant no harm. “Look at me. Who told you that? Did someone put words in your mouth?”
Sophie didn't look at him. She buried her face deeper into Grace’s skirt, her shoulders shaking with silent, suppressed sobs.
Grace immediately stepped back, her chin lifting with a protective, fierce anger that stunned Dominic. She wasn't cowering like the staff usually did when Dominic lost his temper. She stood her ground like a mother defending her nest.
“Back off, Mr. Romano,” Grace said, her voice shaking with quiet fury. “You heard what she said. Pushing her right now won't get you answers; it’ll just drive her back into the silence you hate so much.”
Dominic froze. For a man accustomed to pulling triggers and breaking jaws to get what he wanted, standing helpless in front of a twenty-four-year-old housekeeper was a foreign, agonizing humiliation.
“You,” Dominic pointed a finger at Grace, his tone dropping into a dangerous frost. “My office. Now. Leave the girls.”
Grace hesitated, looking down at Olivia, who gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod. Only then did Grace gently untangle Sophie’s fingers from her apron, whispering soft reassurances before walking past Dominic into the hallway.
The private study smelled of aged leather, pipe tobacco, and old scotch. Dominic closed the heavy oak door behind them with a muffled click, turning the skeleton key in the lock. He spun around, leaning back against the mahogany desk, crossing his arms over his broad chest.
“Talk,” Dominic commanded. “How long have they been speaking to you? What else have they said?”
Grace stood in the center of the Persian rug, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. She wore a simple beige sweater and dark trousers, her auburn hair pulled back into a loose bun that made her look younger than her years. Yet her eyes held a heavy, mature wariness.
“They haven't been talking to me for long, Mr. Romano,” Grace replied evenly. “About three weeks. It started in small whispers when we were baking in the kitchen. Just single words—*sugar, flour, please*. By last week, they were talking in full sentences.”
“And you didn't think to inform me?” Dominic snarled, pushing off the desk. “I pay you to maintain this estate, not to run a secret psychiatric ward behind my back!”
“Inform you?” Grace scoffed, a bitter edge cutting into her voice. “And tell you what? You walk through these doors once a week smelling like gunsmoke and cheap whiskey, barking orders like a drill sergeant, and terrifying everyone in a five-mile radius! The girls didn't talk to you because every time you look at them, you don't see your daughters—you see Isabelle’s ghost!”
The accusation hit Dominic like a physical blow. He lunged forward, closing the distance between them in a heartbeat, his massive frame towering over her. He grabbed her by the shoulders, his fingers biting hard into the fabric of her sweater, pinning her against the edge of the bookshelf.
Grace didn't flinch. She stared straight into his dark, furious eyes, her pulse visibly throbbing at the hollow of her throat, but her gaze never wavered.
“You think you’re protecting them by building a fortress of fear?” Grace whispered fiercely, her voice trembling slightly. “You’re the one keeping them trapped. And as for what Sophie said... maybe you should look closer at the people you invite into this house.”
Dominic’s grip loosened. His breath hitched in his throat. “What is that supposed to mean?”
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“Check the security logs for the night Isabelle died, Mr. Romano,” Grace said quietly, her eyes locking onto his. “Not the police logs. Your own private servers. Because someone inside your inner circle unlocked the front gate from the inside.”
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