Chapter 6 - The Ghost of Elena
Two days after the attack, Rosa called me down to the grand walk-in wardrobe on the second floor—a massive, vaulted room where Elena Russo’s clothes and personal belongings had remained untouched for over a year.
“The Boss wants you to clear out the winter coats,” Rosa said, handing me a stack of velvet hangers. “He’s turning the west wing into a permanent suite for you and the girls. The nursery is too exposed to the exterior courtyard.”
“Are you sure?” I asked, looking around the cavernous, ghost-filled room. “This is her space.”
“It’s time,” Rosa said softly, patting my arm. “The house is waking up, Clara. And ghosts don't belong in a home where children are finally laughing again.”
As I sorted through the luxurious coats and cashmere sweaters, a small, leather-bound journal slipped out from the pocket of a dark emerald wool coat and hit the polished hardwood floor with a soft thud.
I knelt down and picked it up.
The embossed gold letters on the cover read: E.R. 2021.
My breath caught. It was Elena Russo’s personal diary.
I shouldn't have opened it. It belonged to a dead woman, a sacred relic of a mafia boss’s tragic past. But as my fingers trembled against the clasp, a loose photograph slipped out from between the pages and fluttered down onto my lap.
It was a picture of Elena—young, smiling, with dark curls and warm brown eyes.
And standing right beside her, smiling back at the camera... was a woman who looked so much like me I felt like I was looking into a mirror.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
Clara.
No. That was impossible. I didn't know Elena Russo. My mother had raised me in a completely different borough, miles away from the high-stakes syndicate world.
With shaking hands, I opened the journal to the last written page. The ink was slightly faded, dated just three days before the shooting.
“Dominic is worried about the safety of the girls. He wants to send us away to the safehouse in Vermont. But I told him no. Our home is here. And if anything ever happens to me, I know Dominic will find a way to keep them safe. I just pray that whoever comes after me loves them with the same song in her heart...”
The pen strokes trailed off into an uneven smudge.
Suddenly, the heavy oak doors of the wardrobe swung open.
May you like
Dominic stood in the doorway. His eyes locked onto the open journal in my hands, and the photograph resting on my lap.
The color instantly drained from his face.
