The Brother’s Keeper

The rain fell heavier now, hissing against the hot chrome of the SUV. I remained seated on the bottom marble step, holding Harper’s tiny, freezing hand in mine. My mind, trained over seventeen years of blood, politics, and survival in the shadows of the Moretti family, stopped processing the ambient noise of the storm. It locked onto a single, terrifying coordinate: the heavy steel cellar door beneath the west wing.

“Marco?”

The deep, cautious voice belonged to Dante, the captain of my personal security detail. He stepped closer, careful not to loom over me, though his hand rested instinctively near the concealed holster beneath his wet jacket. “Boss, you’re bleeding through your coat cuff—wait, no, it’s not you. Is the child hurt?”

“No,” I said, my voice dangerously low. The single word carried a gravity that made Dante’s boots pause. “She’s not hurt. But Mia Carter has been missing for three days.”

Dante blinked, rain dripping from his heavy brows. “Mia? The housekeeper? But Victoria told the domestic staff that Mia resigned on Tuesday morning to care for a sick relative in the East. She even processed a severance check out of the petty cash ledger.”

“Mia’s mother died three years ago,” I replied, standing up slowly. I did not release Harper’s hand. Instead, I scooped the little girl up into my arm, ignoring the way her damp cotton dress stained my tailored wool coat. She buried her face immediately into my shoulder, trembling. “And Mia never leaves Harper. Not for an hour. Not for a million dollars.”

Dante’s eyes narrowed, shifting instantly from confusion to cold, professional vigilance. As my second-in-command in everything outside of blood-sworn brotherhood, Dante understood the machinery of our house better than anyone. “Boss, you don’t think—”

“I don’t think anything yet, Dante,” I cut him off, turning toward the grand oak double doors of the estate. “I verify. Bring the master keys. All of them. Including the override codes for the west wing sub-basement.”

“Should I wake Victor?” Dante asked, watching my face closely. “He’s working late in the study, managing the shipping manifests from the Palermo docks.”

Victor Romano.

The man who had stood by my side after Elena’s murder. The man who poured my whiskey, vetted my staff, managed my accounts, and called me brother in front of every capo from here to New York. The man engaged to the woman—Victoria Hale—who allegedly sent Mia Carter away.