The Romano estate in New York had never been quiet.
For decades it carried the hum of footsteps, the echoes of deals whispered behind oak doors, the low thunder of men who moved power like currency. The walls had heard confessions, betrayals, threats dressed as blessings, and every shade of loyalty in between.
But tonight, silence fell over the house like mourning cloth.
Not even the fountains in the courtyard dared to break it.
Donna Carmela sat alone on the velvet chaise in her private salon, a glass of untouched red wine on the low table, her fingers clasped tightly around her rosary. She did not pray often—not since she realized God had very little to say to families like theirs—but tonight her hands moved through the beads with a quiet urgency.
Her son's wife was fighting for her life.
Her granddaughter—born too early—rested in a fragile bassinet in the NICU.
And her son…
