Chapter 7 - THE ARCHITECTURE OF DREAD
The golden afternoon light streaming into the luxury kitchen suddenly felt blinding and hostile. Dominic remained on his knees on the marble floor, the white flour dusting the knees of his tailored black trousers, his mind racing through every detail of the night Isabella died.
Fourteen months ago, during a rainy midnight at their previous estate in Westchester, an elite hit squad had breached the outer perimeter. Dominic had been away in Manhattan dealing with a labor dispute. By the time his armored motorcade had torn up the driveway, the house was silent, Isabella was dead in the master suite, and the three girls were found hiding inside a walk-in closet, covered in blood and completely unresponsive.
The syndicate investigation had blamed a rival Italian family from New Jersey. Dominic had responded with a bloody, merciless war that wiped out two entire crime families and cemented his control over the region.
And yet, sitting here in the flour-dusted kitchen, his silent daughter had just uttered three words that shattered the foundation of everything he believed he knew.
Dominic looked up slowly from Lucia. His razor-sharp dark eyes locked onto Rosa Bennett, who was cowering near the doorway, her hands trembling uncontrollably against her apron.
"Rosa," Dominic said, his voice dropping into a register so quiet, so flat, and so devoid of emotion that it sent a shiver of pure dread down the spine of every person in the room.
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"D-Dominic..." Rosa stammered, her voice shaking violently. "She's... she's just a child. She was confused by the trauma... she doesn't know what she's saying—"
"Rosa," Dominic interrupted, his voice dropping another octave. "Lock the estate doors. Tell the security detail at the gate that no one enters or leaves this property. Now."
