Chapter 1 - THE GIRL WHO SPOKE WITHOUT WORDS
Victor Romano stayed kneeling beside the desk long after I expected him to stand.
His eyes never left Mia.
“She usually screams when anyone gets this close,” he said quietly.
I adjusted the little girl against my chest.
“She didn’t scream at me.”
“No.”
He looked at me again.
“That’s what I don’t understand.”
Another low rumble of thunder moved over the mansion.
Mia stirred.
Victor immediately froze.
Not because he feared her.
Because he feared waking her.
That realization changed something inside me.
“I didn’t make her feel safe,” I whispered. “I gave her a choice.”
Victor’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“What choice?”
“I opened my arms. She decided whether to come to me.”
His gaze dropped to Mia’s small hand twisted into my apron.
For a man who commanded armed men and controlled half a dozen companies, the concept seemed strangely unfamiliar.
One of his guards stepped closer.
“Boss, we should move her upstairs.”
Victor’s head turned.
“No.”
The guard stopped.
“She stays where she is.”
I stared at him.
“My legs are falling asleep.”
For one dangerous second, nobody breathed.
Then Victor Romano smiled.
Barely.
But he did.
“I’ll carry her.”
Mia woke the instant he reached toward her.
Her eyes opened.
She saw Victor.
Then she panicked.
Her arms locked around my neck.
Victor stopped immediately.
“It’s okay,” I whispered.
Mia shook her head violently.
Victor’s face hardened with pain.
Not anger.
Pain.
“I won’t touch you,” he told her.
Mia stared.
Victor slowly sat back.
Then he did something I had never seen an employer do.
He asked permission.
“Can Hannah carry you upstairs?”
Mia looked at me.
Then nodded.
Victor’s guards exchanged shocked glances.
Apparently that tiny movement was extraordinary.
I carried Mia through the mansion.
She rested her head on my shoulder.
Victor walked beside us.
At her bedroom, I laid her down and pulled the blanket over her.
She caught my wrist.
I smiled.
“I’m not going anywhere yet.”
Victor stood in the doorway.
Mia looked at him.
Then at me.
Then she raised one trembling hand and pointed toward the hallway.
Victor frowned.
“What is it?”
Mia pointed again.
Three times.
I followed the direction.
At the end of the corridor hung an enormous family portrait.
Victor.
Mia.
Their parents.
And one other man.
A dark-haired man standing behind Victor’s father.
I had seen him before.
Not in the mansion.
In a photograph hidden inside my mother’s hospital drawer.
My blood went cold.
Victor noticed.
“You know that man?”
I should have lied.
Instead, I whispered:
“My mother does.”
Victor’s expression changed.
“Who is he?”
I looked at the portrait again.
The man my mother had once called the reason we could never return to New York.
“His name is Carlo DeLuca.”
Victor went completely still.
“That’s impossible.”
“Why?”
May you like
His voice became ice.
“Because Carlo DeLuca died in the same bombing that killed Mia’s parents.”
