“The family doctor is already in the study,” Dominic said, gesturing for me to enter the house.

The grand foyer was warm, heated by a massive fire crackling in the hearth.

I sank onto a velvet sofa, finally letting my arms relax as I laid the babies beside me.

In the far distance, the high-pitched wail of police sirens began to echo through the Boston streets.

They were coming, drawn by the gunfire and the chaos of the night.

“What do we tell them?” I asked, looking up at the high ceiling.

Dominic sat in the armchair opposite me, his face pale as death, but his eyes were sharp.

“We tell them there was an attempted robbery,” Dominic said.

“My security handled it. The Romano family takes care of its own.”

“And me?” I asked, looking down at my dirty sneakers and damp jacket.

“You are a Romano now, Clara,” he said.

“There is no going back to the diner.”

The red and blue lights of the police cruisers began to flash against the high stained-glass windows of the foyer.