The First Song in Fourteen Months
Chapter 01 - The First Song in Fourteen Months
Six hours before anyone expected him home, Dominic Romano entered his Long Island mansion with a loaded gun beneath his coat, another man’s blood drying on one cuff, and a reputation that made armed men look at the floor.
Then he heard his daughters singing.
For fourteen months, Olivia, Sophie, and Nora had not spoken a single word.
Not one.
Their mother, Isabelle, had been killed outside a preschool in Garden City on a bright Wednesday morning while yellow leaves blew across the parking lot.
Olivia had been six.
Sophie five.
Nora barely three.
After that day, their voices disappeared.
Dominic hired specialists.
Trauma therapists.
Child psychologists.
A woman from Boston who had written books about selective mutism.
He bought puppies, dolls, ponies, art supplies, music boxes, and enough promises to fill a second house.
Nothing worked.
The quieter his daughters became, the harder he tried.
And the harder he tried, the quieter the mansion seemed.
That afternoon, laughter reached him from beyond the central hall.
Then a song.
“You are my sunshine…”
Uneven.
Soft.
Fragile.
Dominic stopped beneath Isabelle’s portrait.
She was laughing in the photograph because she had hated formal portraits and turned toward him between poses.
For one second, his body forgot how to move.
Then Nora’s small voice carried through the house.
“You make me happy when skies are gray…”
He ran.
Not like Dominic Romano.
Not like the man who had spent the morning in a warehouse listening to two terrified men explain a missing shipment.
Like a father.
He reached the kitchen doorway and struck one shoulder against the frame.
Olivia sat on the butcher-block table swinging her legs.
Sophie stood on a chair in an apron twice her size.
Nora was perched on Grace Bennett’s shoulders, laughing hard enough that her curls bounced against her cheeks.
Grace.
The new housemaid.
Twenty-nine.
Dark brown hair tied into a loose bun.
Gray-green eyes that noticed everything and commented on almost nothing.
She had been hired two months earlier after Mrs. Donnelly insisted the upstairs staff needed help.
Dominic had spoken to her perhaps seven times.
Good morning.
Thank you.
Where are the girls?
Tell Mrs. Donnelly I’ll be late.
To him, she had been staff.
Nothing more.
His daughters clearly disagreed.
Nora had both hands tangled in Grace’s hair.
Sophie was laughing.
Olivia was singing.
My children looked alive, Dominic thought.
Then something shameful twisted inside him.
Jealousy.
This woman had done what money, experts, gifts, and their own father had failed to do.
She had given them back their voices.
Not to him.
To her.
His black briefcase slipped from his hand.
It struck the marble floor.
The crack killed the song instantly.
Three little faces turned.
Laughter vanished.
Grace slowly lifted Nora from her shoulders.
Nora immediately moved behind Grace’s skirt.
That hurt more than any bullet Dominic had ever taken.
“Mr. Romano,” Grace said.
“You’re home early.”
Dominic stepped into the kitchen.
“What the hell is this?”
Grace’s expression changed.
Not fear.
Disapproval.
He noticed because almost everyone else in his life had learned to hide theirs.
Then Sophie grabbed Grace’s hand.
She whispered something.
So quietly Dominic almost missed the sound.
Grace went white.
“What did she say?”
Grace looked at Sophie.
Then Olivia.
Then him.
“She said the man who killed their mother is still inside this house.”
The room became colder.
Dominic heard the pantry clock.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
He had spent his adult life learning what different silences meant.
A man touching his jacket was thinking about a weapon.
A room that stopped talking when he entered had been discussing him.
But this silence belonged to three children watching their father to see what he would do.
His hand was still beneath his coat.
He pulled it away.
Then removed the coat entirely and placed it over a chair with the holster turned toward the wall.
Grace saw that.
So did Olivia.
“What did Sophie mean?”
His voice was quieter now.
Grace crouched beside her.
“Sophie?”
Sophie squeezed Grace’s hand.
Grace waited.
She did not ask again.
That tiny choice struck Dominic.
Every specialist had asked questions.
Kind questions.
Professional questions.
Patient questions.
Still questions.
Grace simply stayed.
After nearly a minute, Sophie whispered:
“The picture.”
“What picture, sweetheart?”
She pointed toward the hall.
Olivia climbed down.
Nora stepped away from Grace.
All three girls walked toward the library.
Dominic followed with Grace.
Isabelle had loved that room before they bought the house.
The mansion had been built in 1926 for a shipping family with too much money and a fondness for ceilings tall enough to accommodate weather.
When Isabelle first saw the library, she ignored the fireplace and carved walnut shelves.
She pointed at two empty alcoves.
“Window seats.”
“We don’t own the house yet,” Dominic had said.
“We will.”
“Why do we need window seats?”
“For the kids.”
They had no children then.
He had laughed.
Now Olivia climbed onto one of those window seats.
She reached behind a cushion.
Pulled out an old framed photograph.
A summer barbecue.
Isabelle in white linen.
Dominic younger.
Three men behind them.
His security chief, Matteo Russo.
His cousin Anthony.
And his uncle Cesare Romano.
Sophie’s small hand rose.
Her finger touched Cesare’s face.
“Uncle Cesare.”
Dominic stopped breathing.
Cesare.
Seventy-one.
His father’s older brother.
Retired from daily business.
Still living in the east wing because Isabelle had once insisted family should not die alone in separate houses.
Dominic crouched.
“What about Uncle Cesare?”
Sophie looked terrified.
Grace said nothing.
Dominic forced himself not to ask again.
Olivia spoke instead.
Her voice rough from disuse.
“He was there.”
Dominic’s chest tightened.
“Where?”
“Mommy’s school.”
“The preschool?”
Olivia nodded.
Sophie whispered:
“He told the other man…”
Her mouth closed.
Grace stayed beside her.
Sophie took a breath.
“Do it now.”
Dominic felt the room tilt.
“What other man?”
Sophie looked at the photograph.
Not Cesare this time.
Someone else.
But before she could point—
A floorboard creaked in the hallway.
Dominic turned.
The library door stood open.
At the far end of the corridor, the elevator indicator above the east wing lit.
Third floor.
Cesare’s floor.
Then the elevator began descending.
Grace looked at Dominic.
His daughters went silent again.
May you like
And Dominic realized the man Sophie had just named as the person who killed Isabelle was still under the same roof—
and was coming downstairs.
