Chapter 4 - THE WINTER COAT
The ride to the Romano estate was suffocatingly quiet.
I sat in the back of the armored black SUV between Nicholas and Margaret, staring out the tinted windows as the city lights blurred into a rainy smear. My mind was spinning so fast I felt physically sick.
My father. The Mafia. A hidden drawing. David calling someone from the restaurant kitchen.
Everything I knew about my life had been a carefully constructed lie.
Margaret kept her hand gently rested over mine the entire drive, offering a silent, maternal comfort that I desperately wanted to lean into but was too terrified to accept.
When the heavy iron gates of the Romano estate finally parted, we drove up a long, winding driveway surrounded by towering oak trees. The house itself wasn't the dark, imposing fortress I expected. It was a sprawling, beautiful stone mansion with warm golden light spilling from the windows.
The SUV stopped at the front steps. Nicholas stepped out first, offering his hand to his mother, and then turned to me.
“Come inside, Anna.”
I hesitated, clutching my cheap fabric coat around my uniform. “What if I just want to go home?”
“Your apartment isn't safe,” Nicholas said plainly. “David made that phone call. By tomorrow morning, my uncle’s men will tear your place apart looking for what they think your father left you.”
“He left me nothing!” I cried out, the frustration finally breaking through my fear. “I have medical bills and a cheap silver medal. That’s it!”
“He left you his legacy,” Nicholas corrected, his eyes softening just a fraction. “Let’s get you out of the cold.”
Reluctantly, I followed them up the steps.
The front doors were opened by an older woman in a neat grey dress who greeted Margaret warmly.
“Welcome home, Mrs. Romano. Is this our guest?”
“Yes, Maria. This is Anna,” Margaret smiled, though she looked exhausted. “Could you please make some tea? We’ll be in the study.”
As we walked into the grand foyer, I couldn't help but look around. It smelled of lemon polish, expensive wood, and faint vanilla. Family portraits lined the walls—normal, smiling pictures of holidays and birthdays. It felt so incredibly human.
But as we passed the grand staircase, I froze in my tracks.
Tucked into a small alcove was a heavy mahogany coat rack. Hanging on one of the brass hooks was a dark, heavy wool winter coat.
It was a very specific shade of charcoal grey, with three large black buttons and a noticeable tear on the left pocket that had been carefully stitched with navy blue thread.
I stopped breathing.
“Anna?” Nicholas turned around when he realized I wasn't following.
I pointed a shaking finger at the rack.
“That... that coat.”
Nicholas followed my gaze. His jaw tightened.
I walked slowly toward it, my heart hammering in my ears. I reached out, tracing the navy blue thread on the pocket. My mother had sewn that tear. I remembered sitting at the kitchen table, doing my homework, watching her stitch it while my father complained about how cold the warehouse was going to be that night.
It was the coat he wore the night he died.
“The police gave me his things,” I whispered, tears finally spilling over my eyelashes. “His wallet. His keys. But they said his coat was lost in the river.”
I spun around to face Nicholas, anger finally piercing through my grief.
“Why is my father’s coat hanging in your hallway?!”
Nicholas didn't look away. He didn't try to pacify me. He stepped closer, his imposing frame taking up the space, but his voice was remarkably gentle.
“Because my father waded into the freezing water to pull him out,” Nicholas said, the raw pain in his voice catching me off guard. “He couldn't save him, Anna. The ice was too thick. But he grabbed his coat before the current pulled your father under.”
I covered my mouth to muffle a sob.
Margaret walked over and wrapped her arms around my shoulders, letting me cry into her soft lavender cardigan.
“My Henry hung it there the night he came home,” Margaret whispered into my hair. “He said he would never take it down until Thomas Russo’s daughter was safe.”
I pulled back, wiping my eyes, trying to make sense of the madness.
“Why?” I demanded, looking at Nicholas. “Why did my father have to die? What secret was he hiding for you?”
Nicholas walked over to the coat. He reached his hand into the deep inside pocket and pulled out a small, worn leather pouch.
“Your father wasn't just hiding numbers, Anna. He was hiding a person.”
Before I could ask what he meant, a small voice echoed from the top of the grand staircase.
“Uncle Nicky?”
May you like
I looked up.
Standing at the top of the stairs, clutching a stuffed bear, was a little boy with messy brown hair and large, terrified green eyes. He looked exactly like my older sister, Sarah, who had run away from home ten years ago and never looked back.
