Chapter 3 - Secrets in the Flour
The study smelled of expensive tobacco, leather, and old money, but beneath it all, it smelled like a cage. I stood in front of the massive mahogany desk, my hands still faintly white from the flour, refusing to sit in the velvet chair he offered with a curt tilt of his head.
Dominic removed his coat, tossing it carelessly onto a sofa. He didn't sit either. He walked over to the liquor cabinet, poured two fingers of amber liquid into a crystal glass, and drank it in one swallow.
"Nine months ago, I hired the best child psychologists in the state," Dominic began, his back to me. "I flew a specialist in from Vienna. They told me my daughters had selective mutism brought on by severe trauma. They told me they might never speak again. And yet, a girl who answers an ad to clean my floors has them singing in the kitchen within three weeks."
He turned around, leaning against the edge of the bar, his dark eyes drilling into mine. "Who are you, Clara? And don't tell me you're just a girl from Queens looking for a paycheck."
"I am a girl from Queens, Mr. Russo," I said, squaring my shoulders. "But I’m also a girl whose father owned an auto shop that took protection money from men like you. I know what a house sounds like when it's waiting for a gunshot. Your daughters weren't broken. They were just hiding from the noise."
Dominic's expression didn't change, but the air in the room grew heavier. "The song you were singing. My wife, Carmen, sang that to them every night before she died. It wasn't a commercial lullaby. It was an old Sicilian folk song her grandmother taught her. How do you know it?"
A cold sweat broke out across my neck. I remembered my mother, her soft voice humming that exact melody while she bandaged my father's bruised knuckles after the local crew came to collect their weekly dues.
"My mother was from the same province as your late wife, Mr. Russo," I said quietly. "Grief has a very small map. We all end up singing the same songs to keep the dark out."
Dominic stared at his glass, his fingers tightening around the crystal until I thought it might shatter. "You heard what I said through the door the other night, didn't you?"
My heart stopped. “I don’t care if he has a family. He betrayed me. Handle it.”
"I don't ask questions, Mr. Russo. I just clean."
"You packed your bags," he countered, stepping closer. "Rosa found them in your closet. You were going to leave my children."
"I was going to save myself," I corrected sharply, anger momentarily overriding my fear. "I can't help your daughters if I'm terrified of their father. I don't want to be a casualty in whatever war you're fighting."
Dominic stopped a mere foot away from me. He was a tall man, broad-shouldered and imposing, but up close, I could see the fine lines of exhaustion around his eyes, the deep-seated sorrow that no amount of money or power could mask.
"You're not leaving," he said, his voice dropping to a low, desperate whisper. "Name your price. Double, triple whatever I’m paying you. But you stay. They spoke for you, Clara. If you walk out that door, you'll sink them back into the dark, and I will not let that happen."
Before I could answer, a soft tap came at the study door. The handle turned, and Mia slid into the room, holding her purple butterfly drawing. She didn't look at her father; she ran straight to me, burying her face in my skirt.
May you like
Dominic looked down at his youngest daughter, his hands twitching as if he wanted to reach out but was terrified she would flinch away.
"Please," the feared mafia boss whispered to me, his pride crumbling in front of his child. "Stay."
