Chapter 1 – THE WATCH IN THE SHADOWS
The man on the balcony stepped forward, his face illuminated by the grand crystal chandelier.
Gasps rippled through the dining room.
He had Vincent Romano’s dark eyes. He had Vincent’s sharp jawline. He even had the exact same scar cutting across his left eyebrow—the one Vincent got in a bar fight at nineteen.
But Salvatore’s trembling fingers gripped my wrist with surprising strength.
“That isn’t my son,” the old man wheezed, his voice filled with a terrifying certainty.
Dominic didn’t hesitate.
In a fraction of a second, he stepped in front of his father and me, his hand slipping inside his tailored suit jacket. When his hand reappeared, the dull metal of a customized firearm was pointed directly at the balcony.
“Who are you?” Dominic’s voice was unnervingly calm. It wasn’t a question; it was a promise of violence.
Celeste scrambled backward, her high heels catching on the Persian rug.
“Dominic, put it down!” she cried, her voice pitching into hysteria. “He came to me a week ago! He said he survived the explosion on the docks! He said you abandoned him!”
Dominic didn’t look at her. His eyes remained locked on the figure above.
“My brother died twelve years ago, Celeste. I identified his body. I carried his casket.” Dominic cocked the weapon. The metallic click echoed in the dead silent room. “I will ask you one last time. Who are you?”
The man rested his hands on the marble railing.
He didn’t look afraid. He looked exhausted.
“You carried a closed casket, Uncle Dominic,” the young man said softly.
The word Uncle struck the room like lightning.
Dominic froze. The gun wavered for a fraction of an inch.
“Vincent didn’t survive,” the man continued, his voice echoing in the vast space. “But before he died, he had a life you knew nothing about. He had a woman in Boston. And he had me.”
The stranger reached into his dark coat.
Instantly, Dominic’s guards raised their weapons.
“Don’t shoot!” I shouted, acting purely on an ER nurse’s instinct to preserve life.
The young man pulled out a heavy, tarnished silver pocket watch. He tossed it over the balcony.
It landed on the dining table, sliding across the white linen until it stopped right in front of Dominic.
I recognized the engraving instantly. Salvatore had told me stories about it. It was the Romano family heirloom, given to the firstborn son of every generation. Vincent had been wearing it the night he died.
Dominic lowered his weapon just enough to pick up the watch. He flipped it open.
Inside the lid, scratched into the silver, were the initials V.R.
“My name is Julian,” the young man said. “And I didn’t give Celeste those drops.”
Celeste gasped, her face draining of all color. “You liar! You told me it would just make them sleep! You said we would share the estate!”
Julian shook his head, looking down at her with absolute disgust.
“I told you I wanted my father’s share of the business,” Julian corrected. “I never gave you that bottle. I just watched you use it. I watched you poison my grandfather, and I watched you try to poison my uncle.”
Dominic slowly turned toward his fiancée.
The look in his eyes wasn’t just anger. It was an absolute, cold-blooded void.
“Dominic,” Celeste begged, tears streaming down her perfectly contoured face. “He’s lying! He’s trying to set me up!”
“Then where did you get the drops, Celeste?” Dominic asked, his voice barely a whisper.
Before Celeste could answer, Julian walked down the grand sweeping staircase.
“She got them from the man she’s been sleeping with for six months,” Julian said, stopping at the bottom step. “The same man who forged the documents to steal my grandfather’s voting rights.”
Arthur Bell, the family attorney, suddenly stood up from his chair.
His face was slick with sweat.
“This is an outrage,” Arthur stammered, backing away from the table. “I will not stand here and be accused by an illegitimate bastard—”
“Arthur,” Dominic interrupted, his voice slicing through the attorney’s panic.
Dominic looked at the silver watch in his hand, then at the attorney who had eaten dinner at their table for twenty years.
“Why is your hand in your pocket, Arthur?”
Arthur didn’t answer.
Instead, he pulled a small, black remote detonator from his coat and pressed the button.
The heavy oak doors of the dining room slammed shut, and the lock engaged with a loud, mechanical clank. The lights in the chandelier flickered and died, plunging the room into darkness.
In the chaos, Salvatore gripped my hand and whispered a name I hadn’t heard in three years.
“David.”
My heart stopped.
David was my late husband.
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