Chapter 4 - The hidden portrait
The lullaby faded into a soft, broken weeping behind the heavy wood. Rosa grabbed Sophia, holding the little girl tight against her chest, and ran back to the servant quarters. She didn't sleep a single second that night. The melody played on a loop in her mind. How could the prisoner of a Manhattan mafia boss know a song that belonged to Rosa’s dead mother?
The next morning, the estate was bustling. The syndicate elders were arriving for a high-stakes dinner. Dante ordered the entire staff to be invisible. Rosa was assigned to clean Dante’s private lower-level study, a room usually off-limits, to prepare for his meetings.
The study smelled of rich leather, expensive bourbon, and dark secrets. Rosa polished the massive mahogany desk, her hands shaking slightly. As she moved to dust the large bookcase behind his chair, she noticed a strange gap in the wood paneling. The edge of the bookshelf wasn't sitting flush against the wall.
Driven by a desperate need for answers, Rosa hooked her fingers into the gap and pulled. The heavy wooden panel swung open effortlessly, revealing a hidden alcove behind the books.
Inside the alcove rested a single, large oil painting draped in black velvet.
Rosa swallowed hard. She reached out, her gentle hands pulling the velvet cloth down. The breath was knocked out of her lungs.
It was a painting of a woman sitting in a garden of white roses. The woman was breathtakingly beautiful, wearing a white silk dress. But it was her face that made Rosa stagger backward. The woman in the painting looked exactly like Rosa. The same soft brunette hair, the same delicate facial features, the same expressive eyes. She was perhaps a few years older, but they could have been twins.
But there was one detail in the painting that shattered Rosa’s reality. Tied carefully into the woman's hair was a large, distinctive pink bow. The exact same pink bow that Sophia wore every single day.
"Her name was Elena."
Rosa spun around, dropping her dusting cloth. Dante was standing in the doorway of the study. He had removed his suit jacket, his black vest unbuttoned, his chest heaving slightly as if he had run down the stairs. The cold, controlled mask he always wore was completely gone, replaced by a raw, devastating pain.
"Mr. Falcone, I—" Rosa stammered, stepping away from the painting.
Dante walked into the room, locking the heavy study doors behind him. He closed the distance between them, his towering, muscular frame backing Rosa against the desk. He reached out, his large, tattooed hand gently tracing the edge of the painting.
"She was my wife," Dante said, his voice a low, gravelly whisper. "She was the only light in the dark world I inherited. Five years ago, the Vargas cartel tried to assassinate me to take over the city. They failed. But they managed to poison Elena's tea."
Rosa looked up at him, her heart breaking at the raw agony in his dark eyes.
"The poison didn't kill her," Dante continued, stepping closer to Rosa, his gaze dropping to her soft features. "It destroyed her mind. It fractured her memories, trapping her in a state of permanent paranoia and terror. The syndicate elders demanded I put her in an asylum, to remove the weakness from our bloodline. I refused."
"So you locked her in the east wing," Rosa whispered.
"I built her a sanctuary," Dante corrected fiercely, his eyes blazing. "The room is an exact replica of her childhood home. It is heavily armored. I locked the door to keep the cartel out, not to keep her in. She is too fragile to see anyone. If she steps out of that room, the syndicate will finish the job."
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Rosa looked at the painting, then at Dante. "Why does she look exactly like me?"
Dante’s hand slowly moved from the painting, his fingers gently brushing against Rosa’s cheek, sending a jolt of electricity through her entire body. "Because you are her younger sister, Rosa. And you have no idea who you really are."
