Chapter 7 - THE PORTRAIT ON THE MANTEL
The heavy silence in the grand foyer felt heavier than the marble pillars supporting the ceiling.
Dominic stared down at the tablet screen, his breath hitching for the first time all night. The cold, untouchable mafia boss looked suddenly vulnerable, shattered by a revelation that had nothing to do with guns or syndicates.
“Who is she?” Dominic’s voice was barely a rasp.
Michael tapped the screen, pulling up her background file. “Her name is Sarah Miller. No relation to the terrorist in the garden. She’s a retired nurse living in a modest district on the south side.”
“Why would Celeste funnel forty million dollars of my syndicate money into her account?” Dominic demanded, his jaw clenching. “If New York didn't get the money, and Celeste didn't keep it…”
“Because it wasn't a theft,” Michael said quietly. “It was hush money.”
I slowly pushed myself up from the marble floor, pressing the white handkerchief against my temple. “Hush money for what?”
Michael looked at Dominic, his expression deeply sympathetic. “Boss… look at the photograph of the young man sitting on Sarah Miller’s mantelpiece.”
Dominic zoomed in on the framed picture in the background of the nurse’s apartment photo.
A twenty-two-year-old young man with dark hair, sharp jawline, and striking green eyes smiled back at them from the picture frame.
I gasped. The young man looked so much like Dominic it was like looking into a time machine.
“Who is that?” I whispered.
“His name is Julian,” Michael answered. “He’s twenty-two years old. And according to the sealed hospital records attached to this trust… he is your older brother, Boss.”
The room seemed to spin.
Dominic staggered back a half-step, his hand gripping the edge of the mahogany console table to steady himself.
“My… my father told me I was an only child,” Dominic whispered, shaking his head in disbelief. “My mother died when I was five. My father raised me to take over the syndicate. He swore there was nobody else.”
“Your father lied,” Michael said gently. “Julian was born out of wedlock to Sarah Miller before your father married your mother. Your father paid Sarah to disappear, signing away all parental rights to keep the syndicate’s succession pure. But four years ago… Julian found out the truth.”
A cold, horrifying realization washed over me.
“Four years ago,” I said slowly, looking at Dominic. “The exact same year Elena was murdered.”
Dominic’s head snapped toward me, his dark eyes wide. “Elena found out about Julian.”
“She didn't just find out about the New York syndicate,” I realized, piecing the tragic puzzle together. “She found out your father had another son. A legitimate heir to the Romano empire. She wanted to bring him home. She wanted to split the empire fairly.”
“And Celeste—acting on orders from my father’s old inner circle—eliminated Elena to protect the succession,” Dominic finished, his voice trembling with a grief and rage so profound it filled the entire room.
Four-year-old Oliver, sensing the overwhelming wave of sadness radiating from his father, let out a small whimper and tugged on Dominic’s trouser leg.
“Daddy? Are you crying?” Oliver asked softly, looking up with big, worried eyes.
Dominic dropped to his knees, scooping his son into his arms, burying his face in the boy’s blond curls. He didn't answer. He didn't have to.
I stepped forward, kneeling beside them. I placed my hand gently on Dominic’s broad shoulder.
“Mr. Romano,” I said softly. “You can’t change what your father did four years ago. But you can fix it tonight.”
Dominic slowly raised his head. His eyes were red, fierce, and entirely resolved.
“Michael,” Dominic commanded, his voice dropping into its cold, authoritative register.
“Boss?”
“Get the bulletproof Lincoln ready. Pull together a security detail of six men.”
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“Where are we going, Boss?”
“We’re going to the south side,” Dominic said, standing up with Oliver still cradled securely in his arms. He looked down at me, extending his free hand. “We’re going to bring my brother home for Christmas.”
