“Look at her face, Silvio.”

“Look at the silver locket around her neck.”

Silvio took a slow step toward me, his boots clicking on the hardwood floor.

I held the babies tighter, my knuckles turning white.

The silver locket hung outside my shirt, catching the light from the desk lamp.

Silvio stopped three feet away, his eyes widening.

“Theresa,” he whispered.

“She has Theresa’s eyes,” the captain named Frank said, his voice cracking.

“Theresa died twenty years ago,” the third captain said, shaking his head.

“She didn’t die,” Dominic said.

“She ran away to the North End.”

“She changed her name and hid in the diner beneath our feet.”

“This is her daughter, Clara.”

“The bloodline runs through her just as much as it runs through us.”

The revelation hung in the damp air of the study.

The wind rattled the glass panes behind us, a constant, violent reminder of the storm outside.

Silvio lowered his gun slightly, his expression shifting from anger to disbelief.

“Is this true?” Silvio asked me.

I swallowed hard, my throat dry.

“My mother was Theresa Romano,” I said, my voice trembling but clear.