Chapter 4
The accusation hung in the opulent dining room like a live grenade, its pin pulled and ready to detonate. Several of the seated dinner guests—influential capos and corrupt politicians alike—shifted uneasily in their gold chairs, casting sideways glances at one another. Gabriel’s jaw tightened, a muscle ticking violently along his stubbled cheek. He knew Rachel was right; Daniel had lived a life surrounded by wolves, and hiding a wife and child in a quiet suburb was the only way to ensure their survival. But the sudden revelation tore open old griefs and deep, unhealed scars. "If Daniel survived the harbor," Gabriel said, his voice dropping into a lethal, quiet register, "why didn't he come back to me? Why let me mourn him for half a decade while you lived in poverty scrubbing floors?" "Because he didn't survive the harbor," Rachel answered, her voice cracking for the first time, a single tear spilling over her lashes and tracing down her cheek. "He dragged himself to our doorstep three days after the ambush, bleeding internally, with a shattered spine and a bullet in his lung. He lived for six months in our attic, Gabriel. I nursed him with my own hands, using every penny I earned from washing laundry. But the damage was too severe. On his final night, he made me swear on a stack of Bibles that I would never seek you out unless my life—or Lily's—was in immediate peril." Vanessa’s eyes widened in sudden, frantic alarm. She stepped forward, her red silk dress flashing under the lights. "Gabriel, you cannot possibly believe this melodramatic nonsense! She’s a maid! She’s playing you! Look at her—she’s wearing a thrift-store uniform and fabricating a fairy tale because she’s about to be evicted from her tenement apartment!" Gabriel raised his left hand, his tattooed fingers flexing slightly, and without even turning his head, he shot Vanessa a glance so profoundly cold and dead that the blonde woman slammed her mouth shut, her breath hitching in her throat. He turned his attention back to Rachel, his slate-gray eyes softening as they traced the tired lines of her face—lines carved by years of quiet sacrifice and unyielding motherhood. "Bring me proof," Gabriel demanded quietly. "Bring me something that belonged to him. Something only his brother-in-arms would recognize." Rachel didn't hesitate. With trembling fingers, she reached into the deep hidden pocket of her black housekeeping dress and pulled out a heavy, tarnished silver signet ring, dangling it by a worn leather cord. She held it out on her open palm. Gabriel stepped closer, his breath hitching as he stared at the ring. It was his own twin ring—the one he and Daniel had forged together in a basement workshop in Little Italy before they ever swore allegiance to the syndicate.
