THE SILENT SHADOWS OF LONG ISLAND

The silence in the room was deafening.

Julian stood in front of my desk, holding the folder, waiting for my reaction to the Mendoza cartel news.

But my eyes were entirely locked on his wrist.

He noticed my gaze. He casually adjusted his cuff, covering the bright blue dial of the watch.

“What is it, Dom?” Julian asked, his voice smooth, laced with false concern. “You look pale.”

I forced my eyes up to his face. Isabella’s brother. The man who had stood beside me at her grave and wept. The man I had entrusted with half of my empire because I thought we shared the same grief.

Daddy’s car.

Julian drove the exact same black armored SUV as I did.

The Watchman.

“Just tired, Julian,” I lied smoothly, the instinct of fifteen years in the underworld taking over. “It’s been a long day. The girls are… having a tough time.”

Julian sighed, a perfect picture of a grieving uncle. “I know. Poor Lucia. I hate seeing them suffer like this. If you need me to take them for a few days, give you some peace, just say the word.”

The thought of him alone with my daughters made my stomach physically violently ill.

“I appreciate that,” I said slowly. “Tell me about this Mendoza problem.”

Julian dropped the folder on my desk. “One of my informants spotted their old lieutenants moving cash through the Jersey ports. They’re buying weapons, Dom. They’re planning a retaliation for what you did to them last year.”

I flipped open the folder. It was filled with surveillance photos and financial transfers.

It was meticulous. Detailed.

Too detailed.

“How did your informant get this close without Victor knowing?” I asked, testing him. Victor was my head of security. Nothing moved in New York without Victor seeing it.

Julian’s jaw tightened slightly. “Victor is getting sloppy, Dom. He’s too focused on guarding the estate. You need to let me handle this. Give me the authorization to hit them first, before they cross the river.”

He wanted authorization to start another war. A war that would conveniently cover up whatever tracks he was trying to hide.

Before I could answer, a soft, accidental sound came from behind my heavy oak desk.

The squeak of a shoe on the hardwood.

Elena.

Julian froze. His eyes darted to the space behind my chair.

“Who else is in here, Dominic?” Julian asked, his tone instantly shifting from concerned family member to cold predator.

I didn’t blink. “Just the new maid. She was cleaning up a spill.”

I stood up, blocking his view. “Elena, you can go.”

Elena slowly stood up from behind the desk. She kept her head down, clutching her apron, playing the part of a terrified servant perfectly.

She walked quickly toward the door.

But as she passed Julian, he reached out and grabbed her arm.

“Wait,” Julian said softly.

Elena stopped, her entire body rigid.

Julian stared at her face. I saw the gears turning in his head. He had never seen her at the estate, but Isabella had saved her. Julian had access to Isabella’s files. He knew who the loose ends were.

“Have we met?” Julian asked, his grip tightening on her arm.

“No, sir,” Elena whispered.

“You look very familiar.”

“Let her go, Julian,” I said. My voice was quiet, but the lethal edge to it was unmistakable.

Julian looked at me. He smiled, a thin, dangerous expression, and released her arm.

“My apologies. You just reminded me of someone I used to know.”

Elena hurried out the door, pulling it shut behind her.

Julian turned back to me. “A new maid? After what happened to Isabella, I’m surprised you’re letting strangers into the house.”

“Rosa vouched for her.”

“Right. Rosa.” Julian tapped the folder on the desk. “Read the files, Dom. I need your signature by tonight to move the men into Jersey.”

“I’ll review them.”

“Don’t take too long. We wouldn’t want another tragedy.”

He turned and walked out of the office.

I waited until I heard his footsteps fade down the hall. Then I pulled the pistol from my waistband and checked the chamber.

Julian was the traitor. He had orchestrated his own sister’s murder, pinned it on the Mendozas, and used the resulting war to consolidate his own power. And he had worn my watch to the ambush to ensure if the girls survived, they would blame me.

But I needed absolute proof before I killed him. If I killed Isabella’s brother without evidence, the entire syndicate would fracture, and my daughters would be in even more danger.

I picked up the intercom phone. “Victor. Get to my office. Now.”

Ten minutes later, Victor walked in. He was a massive man, fiercely loyal, covered in scars from keeping me alive for a decade.

“Boss,” Victor said, closing the door.

“Julian was just here,” I said. “He’s pushing for a strike in Jersey.”

Victor frowned. “Jersey? There’s no Mendoza activity in Jersey. My men have the state locked down.”

“Julian’s folder says otherwise.”

Victor looked at the files. He flipped through them, his frown deepening. “This is garbage, Dom. These surveillance photos are months old. He’s manufacturing a threat.”

“I know.” I looked Victor in the eye. “Julian ordered the hit on Isabella.”

Victor went completely still. The loyal soldier in him immediately processed the threat. “Give me the word, Dom. He won’t make it to his car.”

“No. He’s insulated. If he dies here, his lieutenants will retaliate against the estate. We need hard evidence to present to the Commission. I need to prove he embezzled the money and ordered the hit.”

“How?”

“He kept financial records,” I said, remembering Elena’s story. “Isabella found them hidden somewhere in this estate. She knew where the money was.”

Victor shook his head. “We swept this house top to bottom after she died. There are no ledgers.”

“Isabella didn’t trust paper. She was smarter than that.”

I thought about the morning she died. I thought about the rosary she gave Elena.

Then, a memory hit me like a physical blow.

Isabella’s favorite coat.

The heavy, dark green cashmere coat she wore everywhere. The police had returned it to me in an evidence bag after the crime scene was cleared. I had locked it in the attic, unable to bear the sight of it.

“Victor,” I said, my heart pounding. “The coat.”

We rushed up the hidden staircase to the attic. It was dusty and dark. In the corner sat a locked cedar trunk.

I broke the lock with the butt of my gun.

Inside was the evidence bag.

I tore the plastic open and pulled out the green cashmere coat. It still smelled faintly of her perfume. And blood.

I ran my hands along the lining. The pockets were empty.

But when I felt the heavy collar, my fingers brushed against something hard stitched inside the fabric.

“Give me your knife,” I ordered Victor.

He handed me a tactical blade. I carefully sliced the seam of the collar.

A small, heavy metal object fell into my palm.

It wasn’t a ledger. It wasn’t a USB drive.

It was a heavy, antique brass key.