88I came home early and nearly fired the young maid I found sitting on my kitchen floor, making my three daughters laugh for the first time since their mother was murdered. But before I could throw her out, my eldest daughter grabbed my coat, looked me straight in the eyes, and spoke her first words in fourteen months: “Daddy killed Mommy.”

The world stopped.

The hum of the industrial refrigerator, the rustle of the autumn leaves outside, the sound of my own breathing—everything vanished, leaving only those three words echoing inside my skull like a death knell.

"Daddy killed Mommy."

I dropped to my knees on the hard floor, my hands trembling as I reached out to grab Lucia’s tiny shoulders. My leather coat dragged through the spilled flour.

"Lucia... sweetie, what did you just say?" my voice cracked, stripped of all its authority, all its power, reduced to a desperate, broken whisper. "Look at Daddy. What did you say?"

Lucia didn't repeat it. The moment those words left her lips, her eyes welled up with big, heavy tears. She let go of my coat, took two steps back, and squeezed her eyes shut. The silent wall of mutism slammed back down instantly, thicker and harder than before.

Mia and Valentina began to sob quietly, huddling behind the young maid, who instinctively put her arms around both girls, shielding them from me.

"Dominic..." Rosa whispered, her hands shaking as she stepped beside me. "She doesn't know what she's saying. She's confused—"

"Leave us," I rasped, my eyes locked on my eldest daughter.

"Dominic, please—"

"EVERYONE OUT!" I roared, my voice rattling the copper pots hanging above the island.

The young maid flinched, but she didn't leave the children. She looked at me with a mixture of fear and fierce protectiveness that caught me completely off guard.

"Miss," Marco said softly, stepping into the doorway with his hand resting near his belt. "Come with me. Let Mr. Russo speak with his family."

She hesitated, gently kissing the tops of Mia and Valentina’s heads before stepping away. She picked up her apron, took one last look at Lucia, and walked out into the corridor accompanied by Marco.

I was left alone in the kitchen with my three daughters.

I sat on my heels, breathing heavily, trying to process the nightmare unfolding before me. For fourteen months, I had believed my daughters were struck silent by the sheer horror of watching their mother get cut down by cartel hitmen. I believed they were traumatized by the gunshots, the blood, the shattered glass.

I had never considered that they were keeping a secret.

I reached out slowly toward Lucia. "Lucia, baby... Daddy loved your mother. I loved Mommy more than my own life. You know that, right? Why would you say that?"

Lucia stared at me, her face a pale, emotionless mask. She pointed her small index finger at my right chest pocket.

My brow furrowed. I reached inside my inner coat pocket and pulled out the only thing I kept close to my heart: a heavy, vintage silver pocket watch that had belonged to my father.

Lucia’s eyes widened in terror. She took three fast steps backward, grabbed her sisters by their wrists, and pulled them out of the kitchen, their small footsteps fading rapidly up the grand staircase.

I sat alone on the white flour-stained floor, staring at the silver watch in my palm.

The watch hadn't been in my pocket on the day Isabella died. It had been missing for two weeks before the ambush—stolen from my study desk during a high-level meeting with my inner circle.

My blood ran cold.