The October rain fell like judgment over the Romano estate. Inside the marble chapel, the air was thick with the scent of lilies and damp wool. Two hundred men in black suits stood in silence, their eyes fixed on the small white casket at the front.
Don Vincent Romano stood by the altar. He was a man who could burn cities with a phone call, but today, he was just a father staring at the porcelain face of his nine-year-old son, Luca. The boy looked peaceful behind the glass panel—too peaceful.
Vincent placed a hand on the cold mahogany. He didn’t cry. Romanos didn’t cry. But his hand, the hand that held all of New York’s underworld in its grip, trembled.
“We commit this child to the earth,” Father Murphy intoned, his voice shaking slightly.
As the pallbearers—six of Vincent’s deadliest enforcers—moved to lift the casket, the heavy oak doors at the back of the chapel slammed open. Thunder crashed outside, framing a silhouette against the gray light.
A woman stood there. She was a ruin of a person—filthy, matted gray hair, wrapped in a coat that was more holes than fabric. She smelled of rain and the street.
“Stop!” she shrieked, her voice cracking. “Don’t you dare bury him!”
The silence shattered. Two guards were on her instantly, dragging her back.
“He’s not dead!” she screamed, fighting with the desperation of a trapped animal. “I saw him! Through the window! The condensation on the glass—he’s breathing!”
“Get this trash out of here,” Frank Russo, Vincent’s second-in-command, hissed, signaling more guards. “Show some respect for the Don.”
“Wait.”
Vincent’s voice was barely a whisper, but it cut through the chaos like a blade. He turned, his dark eyes locking onto the woman. She wasn’t looking at the guards or the guns. She was looking at the casket.
“Let her speak,” Vincent commanded.
The guards released her. She stumbled forward, gasping. “I… I used to be a nurse. Trauma unit. I know death, Mr. Romano. I know the pallor. That boy… he isn’t gray. He’s pale because his circulation is depressed, but he isn’t dead. Please. Just check. What do you have to lose?”
“She’s insane, Vinny,” Frank said, stepping between the Don and the woman. Sweat beaded on Frank’s upper lip, despite the chill. “The doctors called it hours ago. Three of them. Don’t let her desecrate this moment.”
Vincent looked at Frank. He had known Frank for thirty years. He saw the sweat. He saw the slight tremor in Frank’s left eye.
“Open it,” Vincent said.
“Boss, you can’t—”
“I said open the damn casket!” Vincent roared, the sound echoing off the vaulted ceiling.
The pallbearers hesitated, then unlatched the lid. The heavy top creaked open. The chapel held its breath.
The homeless woman didn’t wait for permission. She shoved past Frank and reached into the silk lining. She pressed two dirty fingers against the boy’s neck.
Silence stretched for ten agonizing seconds.
“Come on, little one,” she whispered. “Come on…”
She dug her thumb into a pressure point behind the boy’s jaw.
Suddenly, Luca gasped.
It was a wet, ragged sound, but it was the loudest noise Vincent had ever heard. The boy’s back arched, his lungs fighting for air.
“He’s alive!” someone shouted.
Pandemonium erupted. Maria, Vincent’s wife, screamed and fainted. The woman—Elena—didn’t flinch. She immediately began massaging the boy’s limbs. “His heart rate is bradycardic. He’s been drugged. I need oxygen, now! Someone call an ambulance!”
Vincent fell to his knees beside the casket, grabbing his son’s hand. It was warm. “Luca? Luca, Papa is here.”
The boy’s eyelids fluttered. “Papa?” he croaked. “Frank… gave me… the bitter juice.”
The temperature in the room dropped to absolute zero.
Vincent slowly stood up. He turned to look for Frank Russo, but the spot where his advisor had been standing was empty. The side door of the chapel was swinging shut.
“Close the doors,” Vincent said. His voice was calm, terrifyingly void of emotion. “No one leaves.”
He turned to the homeless woman, who was currently cradling his son, weeping softly into his hair. She looked up, terrified she had done something wrong.
“What is your name?” Vincent asked.
“Elena,” she whispered. “Elena Vance.”
“Elena,” Vincent said, taking off his tuxedo jacket and draping it over her wet, shivering shoulders. “You are not homeless anymore. You are Romano now.”
SIX MONTHS LATER
The gala was the event of the season. The elite of New York were in attendance. At the head table sat Don Vincent Romano. To his right sat his son, Luca, healthy and vibrant.
And to his left sat a woman in an emerald silk gown, her gray hair dyed a rich chestnut and styled elegantly. Elena Vance.
A rival boss approached the table, sneering slightly as he looked at Elena. “Is this the stray you picked up, Vincent? You keep a pet nurse?”
Vincent didn’t look up from his wine. He simply signaled his guards. “Break his legs. Throw him out.”
As the man was dragged away screaming, Vincent took Elena’s hand and kissed it.
“She is not a pet,” Vincent addressed the room, his voice carrying to every corner. “She gave me back my life. She is the mother of this house. And anyone who disrespects her… declares war on me.”
Elena squeezed Luca’s hand. The boy looked up at her and smiled. She had saved him from the grave, and in return, he had saved her from the streets. They were a family forged in rain and resurrection, and nothing would ever break them apart again.
