Chapter 1 - seven steps behind
The grandfather clock in the grand gallery struck four in the afternoon.
Across the marble expanse of the Falcone estate, maids paused their dusting and suited guards took two paces backward, flattening themselves against the wood-paneled walls. Dante Falcone was walking.
He moved with the slow, terrifying grace of a predator who owned every square inch of the city. Broad-shouldered, towering, his dark wavy hair swept back, Dante kept both hands clasped firmly behind his tailored black vest. His shirtsleeves were rolled to the elbows, displaying dark ink winding down thick forearms. He looked neither left nor right. For eighteen months, ever since the car fire that claimed his wife, Carmela, Dante had walked this corridor at four o'clock in dead silence.
Seven steps behind him walked Sophia.
She was three years old, clad in a delicate pale-pink dress adorned with tiny fabric roses. A massive pink ribbon sat atop her curly light-brown hair. Her tiny hands were locked behind her back. When Dante took a long stride, she took three exaggerated, stiff little steps. When Dante squared his massive shoulders, Sophia lifted her tiny chin and puffed out her chest.
Behind an archway, Rosa Bennett pressed a trembling hand against her mouth. Her maid's apron rustled against her skirt. Her heart slammed against her ribs.
*Sophia, stop,* Rosa prayed silently. *Please, God, don't let him turn around.*
For fourteen days, Sophia had pulled this stunt. For fourteen days, Dante had remained completely unaware. One guard by the double doors bit the inside of his cheek to stop from grinning, while Rosa broke out in a cold sweat.
Then Dante stopped.
The heavy silence of the corridor snapped like dry wood. Sophia froze instantly, her tiny patent-leather shoes planted firmly on the cold stone.
Dante slowly turned around.
The guards stiffened into statues. Rosa gasped and stepped forward, her voice cracking. "Mr. Falcone, I am so sorry—she slipped away from the laundry room—"
Dante raised one tattooed hand. The gesture cut Rosa off mid-breath.
Dante looked down. Sophia stood six feet away, tiny hands still clasped behind her back, her big brown eyes meeting his without a hint of fear.
"Why do you keep walking like me?" Dante's deep baritone rumbled through the hall.
Sophia didn't blink. She marched directly toward him, mimicking his heavy, deliberate stride until her pink shoes nearly touched his polished black leather. She looked up at the man the entire Chicago underworld feared.
"Because you look lonely," she said.
The hallway seemed to lose all air. Dante’s jaw clenched. His dark eyes flickered toward a heavy oak door ten feet away—Carmela’s private sitting room, sealed shut the morning after her funeral. Through the beveled glass beside it, Carmela's portrait still hung in soft gold frames.
Sophia reached up and gently took Dante’s index finger in her tiny fist. "You walk by yourself every day. So I walk with you."
Dante stood frozen. Five seconds passed. Then ten.
Then the corner of his stern mouth twitched. A low rumble built in his chest, breaking out into a genuine, rich laugh—a sound nobody in the Falcone estate had heard in five hundred days.
Guards exchanged wide-eyed glances. Rosa let out a shuddering breath. Sophia beamed, raising both arms in the air for an embrace.
Dante slowly sank to one knee, bringing his imposing frame down to her eye level. But before he could lift her, Sophia placed a small, warm palm directly against his stubbled cheek.
Her smile faded into something unnervingly serious.
"She told me you needed one," Sophia whispered.
Dante went completely still. "Who told you?"
Sophia turned her little head toward Carmela’s sealed sitting room.
The heavy brass lock was unlatched. The door stood open two inches, spilling a faint, warm glow into the corridor.
Sophia pointed her tiny finger. "The pretty lady in that room."
May you like
Dante slowly stood up, every trace of warmth evaporating from his eyes. He pushed past the guards and stepped into Carmela's untouched sanctuary.
On the center table, Carmela’s silver-framed photograph had been moved from its velvet stand. Tucked directly beneath the glass was an envelope sealed with red wax, bearing Dante’s name in Carmela’s unmistakable handwriting.
