THE SHADOW UNDER THE TREE

The soft, metallic scratch of a tension wrench against the nursery door pin tumblers made my heart leap into my throat.

Click. Scrape.

I froze in the rocking chair, holding four-year-old Oliver so tightly against my chest that he stirred in his sleep, letting out a soft, sleepy sigh. His little hand remained curled around his teddy bear, completely unaware that someone was trying to pick the lock from the dark hallway outside.

My mind raced. Dominic had explicitly ordered me to lock the door and not open it for anyone except him. But the person on the other side wasn’t knocking. They were picking the lock with professional, silent speed.

It wasn’t Dominic. Dominic didn’t pick his own locks; he kicked doors down.

Slowly, carefully, I stood up from the rocking chair. I carried Oliver over to the heavy mahogany crib in the corner, gently laying him down beneath the quilted blanket. He whimpered softly, clutching his stuffed bear closer, but he didn’t wake up.

I tiptoed across the thick nursery rug, my eyes fixed on the brass doorknob.

The lock turned with a muffled snap.

The heavy oak door inched open by half an inch, letting in a sliver of cold air from the dimly lit hallway.

A gloved hand reached around the edge of the door, gripping the frame. Then, the barrel of a black, silenced pistol slipped silently into the room.

My blood ran cold. I pressed myself flat against the wall beside the bookshelf, holding my breath.

The door pushed open further.

A figure stepped into the nursery. It was a man wearing a dark tactical turtleneck, black cargo pants, and a ski mask rolled up just above his nose. He moved with the silent, deadly grace of a trained operative.

He didn’t look toward the rocking chair. His eyes scanned straight toward the crib where Oliver was sleeping.

The man reached inside his tactical vest, pulling out a white, medical-grade chloroform cloth.

Anger overrode my terror. This was a four-year-old child.

I spotted a heavy, leather-bound antique dictionary resting on the mahogany reading table beside me. Without thinking, I grabbed it with both hands, raised it high over my head, and swung it with every ounce of strength I possessed.

WHAM.

The heavy corner of the dictionary caught the intruder squarely on the side of his head.

He grunted, stumbling hard against the bookshelf. Books rained down around him, kicking up dust in the warm nursery light. He dropped the chloroform cloth, spinning around with lightning speed, his eyes wide with shock and fury.

“You little bitch—” he hissed, raising the silenced pistol toward my face.

Before he could pull the trigger, the nursery door swung violently wide open, crashing against the wall with a deafening bang.

Dominic Romano stood in the doorway.

His black suit jacket was gone, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing thick, corded muscles. His face was a mask of pure, murderous rage.

The intruder whipped his gun toward the door.

Dominic didn't hesitate. He drew his own weapon and fired in a single, fluid motion.

Crack.

The bullet caught the intruder in the shoulder. The man cried out, his pistol clattering against the hardwood floor. He spun toward the open window, smashing through the glass and vanishing into the snowy Chicago night.

“Michael! Perimeter!” Dominic roared into the collar of his shirt, rushing past me into the room.

He didn’t stop to check the bookshelf. He went straight to the crib, scooping a now-awakening Oliver into his arms.

“Daddy?” Oliver rubbed his eyes sleepily. “What was that loud noise?”

“It’s okay, buddy. Daddy’s here. You’re safe,” Dominic murmured, his voice softening instantly as he cradled his son. He checked Oliver over meticulously, confirming the boy hadn't been touched.

Then, Dominic turned his dark, piercing eyes toward me.

I was standing beside the overturned dictionary, shaking from head to toe, holding the heavy silver locket in my trembling hand.

“Hannah,” Dominic said, stepping toward me. “Are you hurt?”

“N-no, sir,” I stammered, my voice trembling. “I hit him with the dictionary. He… he had a gun, Mr. Romano. He was going to take Oliver.”

Dominic looked down at the floor, where the intruder had dropped a black leather duffel bag in his frantic escape. Michael and two guards burst into the room a second later, panting heavily.

“Boss! The east fence is breached! He scaled the wall and got into a waiting black SUV!” Michael reported, breathing hard.

“Find out whose plates were on that car before the clock strikes midnight, or you won't live to see Christmas, Michael,” Dominic said coldly.

“On it, Boss.” Michael grabbed the duffel bag off the floor and backed out of the room.

Dominic turned his full attention back to me. He noticed the silver locket clutched tightly in my palm.

“What is that?” he asked, his brow furrowing.

“Oliver gave it to me,” I whispered, stepping forward and handing it to him. “Miss Celeste gave it to him earlier today. She told him to keep it hidden in his pocket.”

Dominic took the locket. His large, calloused fingers pried it open.

He stared at the faded photograph inside.

Then, his eyes dropped to the handwritten note on the back.

“He’s looking for the boy. Keep him quiet until delivery.”

The temperature in the nursery seemed to drop ten degrees. Dominic’s jaw tightened so hard I thought bone would fracture. He recognized the handwriting.

“Celeste,” Dominic whispered, the name tasting like poison on his tongue.

He snapped the locket shut and looked at me, his dark eyes burning with an intense, complicated mix of fury and sorrow.

“Hannah, did you read what’s written on the back?”

“Yes, sir,” I answered honestly. “It mentions the house where your first wife… where the fire happened.”

Dominic closed his eyes for a long, painful moment. When he opened them, the cold mafia boss was gone, replaced by a grieving husband and a terrified father.

“My first wife, Elena, didn’t die in a tragic accident four years ago, Hannah,” Dominic said quietly, walking over to the rocking chair and sitting down with Oliver still resting in his arms. “The official police report said faulty wiring. But she had discovered that someone within my own inner circle was funneling syndicate funds to our biggest rival—the Moretti family in New York.”

My breath caught in my throat. “She was murdered?”

“She was silenced,” Dominic corrected grimly. “And the person who planted the incendiary device in her study… left behind a calling card.”

Dominic reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a small, cracked glass lens. It was a specialized camera lens, stained with soot.

He held it out to me.

“The police told me this belonged to a photographer who was doing Christmas portraits for the estate,” Dominic said. “They told me it was an accident. But look closer at the mounting ring, Hannah.”

I leaned in, holding my breath under the lamp light.

Engraved along the tiny metal rim of the cracked lens were initials.

C.H.

Celeste Harrington.

“She was there the night Elena died,” Dominic whispered, his voice cracking slightly. “She was supposed to be my cousin’s fiancée back in New York. But she switched sides, embedded herself in my life, and spent the last four years playing mother to my son.”

Oliver stirred in his lap, looking up at his father with big, innocent eyes. “Daddy? Are we going to see Santa?”

“Yes, buddy,” Dominic smiled gently, kissing his son’s forehead. “Santa is going to bring us a very special present tonight. The truth.”

He looked up at me, his gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that made my stomach flutter despite the horror of the night.

“Hannah. I need you to do something dangerous for me.”

“Anything, Mr. Romano,” I said without hesitation.

Dominic stood up, gently handing a sleepy Oliver back into my arms.

“Take Oliver down to the secure panic room behind the wine cellar. Lock the door. Then, go back to the dining room.”

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small, encrypted recording device, pressing it into my hand.

“Confront Celeste,” Dominic instructed, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Tell her you found the locket and know about the New York connection. Get her to confess on tape.”

“And you?” I asked, my heart hammering.

Dominic walked toward the broken nursery window, looking out into the dark, snowy Chicago night where his guards were hunting the intruder.

“I’m going to pay a visit to the dining room myself,” Dominic said coldly. “Because the man who just broke into my house didn't come to steal money. He came to collect the deposit Celeste was paid four years ago.”