When Dominic returned to the mansion that afternoon, the gates were secured by Salvatore’s most trusted men. The Long Island wind was blowing hard off the Sound, carrying the smell of brine and winter cedar.

As he entered the grand foyer, he heard the piano.

It was not Chopin or Mozart, which the private tutors used to stumble through while the girls sat mute as statues. It was a clumsy, plodding rendition of "Heart and Soul."

Dominic stepped into the conservatory.

Grace was sitting on the piano bench with Nora beside her, pressing the black keys with both index fingers. Olivia and Sophie were seated cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by colored construction paper and glue sticks.

When Dominic crossed the threshold, all four of them looked up.

For the first time in fourteen months, they did not scatter.

Sophie stood up, her small knees cracking. She walked toward Dominic, holding a folded sheet of yellow paper.

Dominic knelt. The knees of his trousers touched the floor. He brought himself down until his eyes were level with his daughter’s.

"He's gone, Sophie," Dominic said. "Uncle Marcus will never come through those gates again. He will never sit in this house. He will never touch this family."

Sophie reached out. Her small, warm hand touched the scar along Dominic’s jawline. Her fingers were sticky with paste.

"Daddy," she said.

The word was small. It was frail. But to Dominic, it hit with the force of an artillery shell.

Tears, hot and long-repressed, breached the corners of his eyes. Dominic Romano, a man who had watched buildings burn without flinching, buried his face into the hollow of his six-year-old daughter’s neck and wept.

Olivia joined them, wrapping her thin arms around Dominic's neck. Then Nora tumbled off the bench, waddling over to pile into the center of the embrace, her curls tickling his cheek.

Behind them, Grace Bennett stood quietly from the piano bench. She folded her apron, laid it neatly across the top of the upright piano, and began to slip silently toward the door to give them their privacy.

"Grace," Dominic called, his voice choked with emotion.

She stopped at the threshold, turning back. Her face was serene, but her gray eyes were shining.

"Stay," Dominic said. It was not an order. It was the first genuine plea Dominic Romano had uttered in twenty years. "Please. Stay for dinner."

Grace looked at the three girls clinging to their father like saplings taking root after a fire. She offered a slight, knowing nod. "Only if you let Nora peel the potatoes, Mr. Romano. She's remarkably good at it."

***