THE ESTATE OF SHADOWS

The sweet, tinkling melody of the silver music box suddenly felt entirely suffocating.

I stared at the jagged edge of the photograph in my hand. The gold ring with the heavy crest caught the dim light filtering through the closet door.

Monster.

Leo was three years old. Children his age didn't invent complex lies. They processed trauma in fragments—sights, sounds, smells. And looking at the sheer, unadulterated terror radiating from Leo's small body as he stared at that ring, a horrifying realization settled into my bones.

The newspapers said Elena Moretti was killed in a random drive-by shooting intended for her husband.

But Leo hadn't been screaming in the restaurant because he was spoiled. He hadn't bitten Dante because he was throwing a tantrum.

He was screaming because he was trapped in a house surrounded by the people who had murdered his mother.

"Leo," I whispered, keeping my voice incredibly soft. I quickly folded the torn photograph and slipped it deep into the pocket of my work trousers. "It's okay. The monster isn't here right now. I've got you."

I closed the silver music box. The haunting lullaby stopped abruptly.

I pulled the heavy winter blankets back over the box, hiding it exactly as Leo had left it. I didn't know who I could trust. I didn't know if Dante was part of it. I certainly didn't know if Rico Moretti himself had ordered the hit on his own wife.

I had to play along. I had to be the clueless, desperate waitress who just needed a paycheck.

"Come on," I said, forcing a warm, reassuring smile. I picked Leo up, resting him on my hip. He felt terribly light, his little arms wrapping tightly around my neck, his face buried in my shoulder.

We walked out of the closet.

Dante was still standing in the doorway of the playroom, his massive arms crossed over his chest. His eyes tracked my every movement.

"He likes the dark," Dante noted, his gravelly voice echoing in the large room.

"He likes feeling hidden," I corrected, gently rubbing Leo's back. "When the world feels too big and dangerous, small spaces feel safe."

Dante didn't argue. He just watched us.

"The boss wants to see you in his office," Dante said. "He wants an update before he leaves for the docks."

My stomach tightened.

I carried Leo downstairs, walking past the immaculate, sterile living spaces that felt more like a mausoleum than a home. Dante opened a set of heavy mahogany double doors at the end of the main hallway.

Rico Moretti was sitting behind a massive leather-topped desk.

He was reviewing a stack of shipping manifests, holding a pen with tense, white-knuckled fingers. When we walked in, he looked up.

His eyes immediately fell on his son.

Leo didn't look at his father. He buried his face deeper into my shoulder.

A flash of raw, unfiltered agony crossed Rico's face before he forced it behind a mask of cold authority. He set his pen down.

"He hasn't spoken to me in three months," Rico said quietly, the vulnerability in his voice startling me. "And yet, he holds onto you like you're his mother."

"I'm not his mother, Mr. Moretti," I said, standing near the door. "I'm just someone who isn't asking him to be brave."

Rico stood up, walking slowly around the desk. He wore a crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled up, revealing the dark ink of syndicate tattoos winding up his forearms.

He stopped a few feet away from us. He looked at Leo's small back, his hand twitching as if he wanted to reach out, but he forced it back to his side.

"I don't know how to fix him," Rico whispered, speaking more to himself than to me. "I took away everything that reminded him of that night. I removed the photos. I removed her clothes. I wanted to erase the pain."

"You can't erase pain by erasing the person who died," I said firmly, shocking myself with my own boldness. "You just left him alone in a house full of strangers."

Rico's dark eyes snapped up to mine.

For a second, I thought he was going to fire me. The dangerous mob boss in him bristled at being reprimanded in his own home. But then, his shoulders slumped.

"You're right," Rico admitted, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. "I failed him."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a thick envelope. He held it out to me.

"Your first week's pay, in advance," Rico said. "Plus enough to cover whatever debts you owe. You don't have to worry about your landlord anymore, Clara. Just focus on my son."

I stared at the envelope. It was thick with hundred-dollar bills. More money than I had ever held in my life. It was the solution to all my problems. Evan could have groceries. We wouldn't be evicted.

But as I took the envelope, the torn photograph in my pocket felt like a burning coal against my thigh.

"Thank you, Mr. Moretti," I said quietly.

Rico nodded, returning to his desk. "Dante will bring in Leo's lunch. I have business to attend to."

Later that afternoon, while Leo was taking a nap on the large sofa in the playroom, I sat on the floor nearby, my heart racing as I pulled the torn photograph out of my pocket.

I stared at the gold ring with the heavy crest.

Carmine.

Why would Carmine tear a photograph of Elena? Why would he hide it?

Before I could analyze it further, the playroom door opened.

I quickly shoved the photo under my leg, grabbing a children's book from the floor.

It was Dante. He was carrying a heavy cardboard box sealed with police evidence tape. The tape had been sliced open.

"What's that?" I asked, keeping my voice steady.

"The precinct finally released Elena's personal effects from the vehicle," Dante grunted, setting the box down on a side table. "The boss can't bear to look at it. He told me to throw it in the incinerator."

Dante looked at the box with a rare expression of deep sorrow. "It feels wrong. Just burning it."

"Then don't," I said. "Let me look through it. Maybe there's something Leo should have when he's older."

Dante hesitated, then gave a single nod. "I have to check the perimeter. Be quick. If the boss sees you going through her things, he'll lose his mind."

Dante walked out, pulling the door shut behind him.

I scrambled up from the floor and rushed over to the cardboard box.

Inside, it smelled of dried blood, expensive perfume, and old leather. There was a designer handbag, stained dark brown at the bottom. A shattered cell phone. A set of keys.

And at the very bottom of the box, lying flat against the cardboard, was a folded piece of glossy photo paper.

My hands shook violently as I reached in and pulled it out.

It was the other half of the torn photograph.

I pulled the left half from my pocket and lined the two jagged edges together.

The image completed itself perfectly.

Elena was smiling over her shoulder. Standing next to her was Carmine, his hand resting affectionately on her shoulder, the gold ring clearly visible.

But it was what Elena was holding in her own hands that made the blood freeze in my veins.

In the complete picture, Elena was holding a massive, ledged dossier stamped with the seal of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. And written across the front of the folder in thick black marker were two words: OPERATION MORETTI.

Elena hadn't been killed in a random drive-by.

She had been working with the FBI to take down her husband's empire.

And as I stared at the photo, a cold shadow suddenly fell across the cardboard box.

I spun around.

Standing right behind me, leaning on his silver-handled cane, was Uncle Carmine.

He looked down at the photograph in my trembling hands, a slow, terrifying smile spreading across his face.