“I do not need you telling me what my children need.”
Dominic moved closer. His face was flushed. A vein stood out in his neck. His fists clenched so tightly his knuckles went white.
“They are my children. Not yours. You have no right.”
Elena stepped back once, not because she was afraid, but because Mia was behind her and she needed to shield the child.
Then she looked straight into Dominic’s eyes.
“I’m the only one who got them to speak again,” she said clearly. “How many experts did you hire? How much money did you spend? No one could do it. I did. In eight weeks. You can fire me, but you can’t deny that.”
Dominic went still.
No one spoke to him like that.
Not his men. Not his enemies. Not bosses from rival families. Not politicians who owed him favors. Everyone measured words around Dominic Russo.
But this young woman stood in his kitchen and threw the truth directly at him.
And the truth hurt worse than any bullet.
“You’re fired,” he snarled. “Pack your things. Get out right now.”
Elena looked at him for a long moment.
There was no fear in her eyes.
No begging.
Only disappointment.
And that made him even angrier.
Footsteps sounded in the hallway. Rosa rushed in, breathless, face pale. She had been with the Russo family for 15 years. She had watched Dominic grow from a hot-headed street kid into one of the most feared men in New York. She had been at his wedding. She had held his daughters when they were newborns. She had stood beside him when Isabella lay in her coffin.
“Boss,” she pleaded. “You don’t understand. She’s done what no one else could. The girls are talking. The girls are laughing. Please don’t—”
Dominic turned on her.
His stare pinned Rosa to the doorway.
For the first time in 15 years, she looked afraid of him.
“Get out of my house,” he said to Elena, voice cold as ice. “Before I do something we will both regret.”
Elena bent down and gently pried Mia’s hands off her skirt.
Mia cried harder.
“Miss Elena, don’t go. Miss Elena.”
Elena knelt in front of her and wiped the tears from her cheeks.
“You’ll be all right, angel,” she whispered. “You’ll all be all right.”
Then she stood.
She walked past Dominic with her chin lifted and her back straight. Tears slid silently down her cheeks, but she did not hide them. She did not plead. She did not look small.
She walked out of the sunlit kitchen, leaving behind three crying little girls, one trembling old housekeeper, and a mafia boss breathing hard with rage he no longer knew what to do with.
Only minutes earlier, that kitchen had been full of music.
Now it held nothing but the sound of children breaking all over again.
Before Isabella died, the Russo mansion had not been silent.
Lucia used to read books to her dolls, making up voices for each one.
Valentina used to ask why about everything. Why did stars shine? Why did the ocean move? Why did Daddy’s men wear black suits? Why did Mommy smell like jasmine?
Mia used to sing in the bath, making up nonsense songs and laughing at herself until Isabella came in and sang along.
They were identical triplets. Four years old. Black curls. Brown eyes. Isabella’s eyes.
Then came the ambush.
Isabella had been picking the girls up from preschool when the Mendes cartel made their move. A rival family wanted to send Dominic a message. They opened fire on the car in broad daylight.
Isabella used her own body as a shield.
She died on the spot.
The girls survived without a scratch.
Dominic had been in Chicago when the call came.
By the time he reached New York, his wife was gone, and his three daughters had vanished inside themselves.
At the funeral, something sealed shut inside them.
All three stopped speaking at the same time.
Not one word.
Not one laugh.
Not one sob.
Fourteen months of silence.
They held hands and stared into empty space like ghosts.
Dominic did what a powerful man does when power is the only language he trusts. He spent money. He summoned specialists. He threatened doctors with more money if they failed and paid them anyway when they did. He took the girls anywhere he thought joy might still exist.
Nothing reached them.
So he did the other thing he knew how to do.
He hunted down the Mendes cartel.
One by one, he made them pay. It took three months to wipe them off the map.
But revenge did not bring Isabella back.
And blood did not make his daughters speak.
So Dominic ran without leaving.
He buried himself in business. Eighteen-hour days. Trips every week. Miami. Chicago. Las Vegas. Atlantic City. Anywhere that was not the mansion. Anywhere he did not have to sit across from three silent little girls and admit that the man who controlled half the underworld could not reach his own children.
