Chapter 1 - The Girl in the Yellow Dress
Lily stepped through the soap and whispered, “Please don’t be mad at Leo.”
Dominic Moretti entered holding Leo’s broken silver picture frame.
A tiny strip of paper was trapped beneath the cracked glass.
Three words were written on it:
“Mom. Come back.”
Dominic stopped breathing.
I had been working inside Dominic Moretti’s home for only four months, but that was enough time to understand one rule better than all the others.
Nothing in that house happened without Dominic noticing.
He noticed when a vase had been moved two inches.
He noticed when a guest used the wrong entrance.
He noticed when one of his security men changed shifts without permission.
And he certainly noticed when his spotless kitchen looked as though a bubble factory had exploded across it.
White foam covered the polished marble floor.
Soap bubbles floated between the counters.
A stainless-steel mixing bowl had been turned upside down beside the island.
Leo Moretti sat barefoot in the middle of the disaster, his white shirt damp at the sleeves and his dark trousers covered with suds.
Beside him sat my daughter.
Lily.
Three years old.
Curly light-brown hair.
Yellow flowered dress.
Pink bubble wand in one hand.
Absolutely no understanding that the man standing six feet away had made grown men lower their eyes merely by entering a room.
I understood.
That was why my hands were shaking.
“Mr. Moretti,” I said.
Dominic did not look at me.
His attention remained on the children.
More specifically, on Leo.
The laughter that had filled the kitchen ten seconds earlier was gone.
Leo’s shoulders were folded inward.
His eyes were fixed on the floor.
His little blue bubble wand rested beside his knee.
That transformation disturbed me more than Dominic’s silence did.
Because I had seen Leo happy less than a minute earlier.
Really happy.
Not the polite half-smile he gave his tutor.
Not the carefully practiced expression he used when his father’s business associates visited.
He had been laughing so hard that he could barely breathe.
Lily had taught him how to make bubble mountains using dish soap and water.
One mountain became two.
Two became six.
Then Leo had discovered that he could slap both hands into the foam and send bubbles flying across the kitchen.
Lily screamed with delight.
Leo laughed.
I had stood by the pantry door watching them.
And because I had never once heard that boy laugh like that, I had made the mistake of letting the mess continue.
Then Dominic came home early.
Now Leo looked like another child entirely.
“Dad,” he whispered.
Dominic’s expression was unreadable.
He wore a black suit, black shirt open slightly at the collar, and the silver watch I had seen him wear every day since I started working there.
Dark tattoos disappeared beneath his cuffs.
More ink rose above his collar.
People in Boston told stories about Dominic Moretti.
I had learned not to ask which stories were true.
He owned restaurants, shipping companies, construction firms, and enough property that half the city seemed to know his name.
Some called him a businessman.
Others lowered their voices before calling him anything.
I called him Mr. Moretti.
And I tried very hard not to become interesting to him.
Unfortunately, my daughter had other plans.
Lily stood.
She slipped once on the wet floor, caught herself on the edge of the island, then marched directly toward Dominic.
“Lily,” I whispered sharply.
She ignored me.
She planted herself between him and Leo.
Dominic finally looked down at her.
The sight was almost absurd.
Dominic Moretti was over six feet tall, broad-shouldered and dressed like a man heading into a boardroom where everyone else already knew he would win.
Lily barely reached his thigh.
She lifted her chin.
“Please don’t be mad at Leo.”
Dominic’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“Why would I be mad at Leo?”
Lily looked around.
“Because of all this.”
She waved her bubble wand toward the destroyed kitchen.
A bubble floated between them.
Dominic watched it pass.
Then he looked back at Lily.
“Did Leo do this?”
“No.”
Leo’s head snapped up.
Lily pointed at herself.
“I did.”
That was not entirely true.
“Lily,” I said carefully.
She turned.
“Mommy, Leo helped.”
At least she corrected herself.
Dominic glanced toward me.
I wished the marble floor would open.
“I apologize,” I said. “I should have stopped them immediately. I’ll clean everything. If anything is damaged, you can take it from my pay.”
His gaze stayed on me long enough to make my stomach tighten.
Then he asked, “Why didn’t you stop them?”
I hesitated.
Because your son was laughing.
Because every other day he moved through this enormous house like a child trying not to disturb the furniture.
Because I had never seen a six-year-old look so lonely.
Because when Lily asked if Leo could play, he had looked at me as though she had offered him the moon.
I could not say any of that.
But Lily could.
She always could.
“I wanted him happy,” she said.
Dominic looked at her.
Lily pointed back toward Leo.
“He’s always sad.”
Silence.
The kitchen seemed to change.
Even the soft ticking of the clock near the breakfast room sounded louder.
Dominic turned slowly toward his son.
Leo stared at his hands.
The cracked silver frame Dominic had carried into the room hung forgotten at his side.
I recognized it.
It usually sat on the small table outside Leo’s bedroom.
The photograph inside showed Leo as a baby in the arms of a beautiful dark-haired woman.
Dominic’s wife.
Sofia.
She had died when Leo was still very young.
Nobody talked about her.
The first time Lily had asked who the lady in the photograph was, Leo had whispered, “My mommy.”
Then he had changed the subject.
Dominic lifted the broken frame now.
“Leo.”
The boy flinched.
“Yes, Dad?”
“Look at me.”
Leo raised his eyes.
Something passed across Dominic’s face.
Pain, maybe.
Or recognition.
“You’re sad?”
“No.”
The answer came too quickly.
Lily frowned.
“You are.”
Leo looked embarrassed.
“Lily.”
“You told me.”
His face went pale.
Dominic’s attention sharpened.
“Told her what?”
“Nothing.”
Lily turned toward Dominic.
“He said the house doesn’t like noise anymore.”
My chest tightened.
I had heard Leo say it earlier.
I had assumed it was a child’s strange way of describing grief.
Dominic did not move.
Lily continued.
“He said when his mommy was here, people laughed.”
“Lily,” I whispered.
This time she heard the warning in my voice.
She stopped.
But the damage had already been done.
Dominic looked down at the broken frame.
That was when he noticed the paper beneath the glass.
He frowned.
With one thumb, he shifted the cracked photograph.
A narrow folded strip slipped out.
Dominic caught it.
Leo stood quickly.
“No.”
Dominic looked at him.
The boy’s fear was immediate.
“Where did this come from?”
Leo said nothing.
Dominic unfolded the paper.
I was far enough away that I could not read it at first.
Then his hand lowered.
I saw the childish letters.
MOM. COME BACK.
The words had been written with blue crayon.
Dominic’s face changed.
Not dramatically.
That would have been easier.
Instead, everything simply disappeared from it.
Anger.
Authority.
Coldness.
For one second he was not Dominic Moretti.
He was a father reading a message from a little boy to a dead mother.
“When did you write this?” he asked.
Leo looked toward the doorway.
“Last night.”
“Why did you put it there?”
“So she could see it.”
Dominic’s jaw tightened.
Leo spoke faster.
“Grandma says people in heaven can see you sometimes.”
Dominic closed his eyes.
Only for a second.
Then he crouched.
Now he was at Leo’s height.
I had never seen him do that before.
“Why did you want her to come back?”
Leo’s bottom lip trembled.
He tried to hide it.
“Because you don’t smile anymore.”
Dominic stared at him.
“And because…”
Leo stopped.
“Because what?”
Leo’s eyes moved toward me.
Then Lily.
Then the hall.
His voice became almost inaudible.
“Because Uncle Marco said it was my fault she died.”
Dominic went still.
My breath caught.
Even at three years old, Lily understood something was wrong.
She moved closer to Leo and took his hand.
Dominic rose slowly.
“Who told you that?”
Leo looked terrified now.
“Uncle Marco.”
Dominic’s expression hardened.
Not toward Leo.
Toward something far beyond the kitchen.
Marco Moretti was Dominic’s younger brother.
He visited the mansion often.
He was charming in a polished, dangerous way, always smiling at staff members as if he knew something they did not.
He had never frightened me as much as Dominic did.
Until that moment.
Dominic took out his phone.
“Anthony.”
A man answered immediately.
“Where is my brother?”
Dominic listened.
Then his eyes moved toward the windows.
“Bring him here.”
He ended the call.
I stepped forward.
“Mr. Moretti, perhaps Lily and I should leave.”
“No.”
The answer was immediate.
I froze.
Dominic looked at me.
“You heard what Leo said.”
“Yes.”
“You stay.”
That was the last thing I wanted.
Lily tugged my apron.
“Mommy?”
“It’s okay.”
It absolutely was not.
Dominic looked toward the children.
“Both of you upstairs.”
Leo hesitated.
Lily squeezed his hand.
“We can make bubbles later.”
A strange sound almost escaped Dominic.
Not laughter.
Something close.
Leo nodded.
They started toward the hall together.
Then Leo stopped.
He turned back.
“Dad?”
Dominic looked at him.
“Uncle Marco said something else.”
Every adult in the room became still.
Dominic’s voice lowered.
“What?”
Leo swallowed.
“He said Mommy wasn’t supposed to be in the car that night.”
Dominic’s hand tightened around the folded paper.
“What exactly did he say?”
Leo stared toward the front of the house.
“He said the wrong Moretti died.”
A door slammed downstairs.
Heavy footsteps crossed the marble foyer.
Dominic turned toward the hall.
Then a familiar male voice called from beyond the kitchen.
“Dominic? You wanted to see me?”
May you like
Marco had arrived.
And Leo suddenly whispered, “That’s him…”
