Chapter 2 - The Echoes of Greystone
The main dining room of Greystone Mansion had been built in 1928 by Adrien’s grandfather—a man who believed that dinner was an exhibition of power. The mahogany table was twenty-four feet long, surrounded by twenty high-backed leather chairs carved with the Romano crest: a shield flanked by twin roses and a silver blade.
For seven years, Adrien had eaten at the head of that table alone. A single linen napkin, a single silver plate, and a single wine glass were set at eight o'clock every evening. The room was so quiet that the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner sounded like small explosive charges going off every second.
On Wednesday morning, twelve hours after Adrien’s return from New York, the dining room looked different.
At the far end of the long mahogany table, sitting directly to Adrien’s right, was a wooden booster seat.
Zoe sat atop it, her legs swinging back and forth, five inches above the floor. She wore a bright red sweater with white clouds across the front and a yellow plastic bib shaped like a duck. In her hands, she held a large, silver-plated spoon, using it to push three large strawberries around a bowl of warm oatmeal.
Across the room, four armed guards stood near the double doors, their suits dark, their hands folded behind their backs. They were seasoned men—veterans of Chicago street wars who had watched car bombings and warehouse shootouts without blinking. Now, they were staring at the toddler with an expression of pure, unadulterated bewilderment.
Adrien sat in his usual chair at the head of the table. He wore a crisp white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his charcoal jacket draped over the back of his chair. He was reading a five-page intelligence report regarding shipping logistics at the Indiana border, but every three seconds, his eyes flicked sideways to watch Zoe.
“Big man,” Zoe said, her voice echoing clearly in the vast dining room.
Adrien immediately lowered his paper. “Yes, Zoe?”
“The oatmeal has red dots,” she announced, pointing her spoon at a strawberry slice.
“Those are strawberries,” Adrien said, his voice softer than any of his guards had ever heard it. “Do you like them?”
“I like the red ones,” she declared, scooping a strawberry into her mouth and leaving a smear of pink sugar across her cheek. “Mama says strawberries are for special days.”
Adrien looked up from the table. Grace was standing near the sideboard, holding a fresh pot of coffee in her hands. Her uniform was pristine, but her face was pale, her eyes darting nervously toward the guards by the door. She had spent the last two hours trying to convince Adrien that Zoe should eat in the staff kitchen, but Adrien had personally carried the wooden booster seat into the grand dining room himself.
“Every day is a special day now, Zoe,” Adrien said, looking directly at Grace. “Grace, sit down.”
Grace froze, the silver coffee pot trembling slightly in her grip. “Mr. Romano, staff members are not permitted to sit at the primary table—”
“I am the one who writes the permissions,” Adrien said, gesturing to the leather chair beside Zoe. “Sit down and eat your breakfast.”
Grace swallowed hard, set the coffee pot on a silver trivet, and slowly pulled out the high-backed chair. She sat on the edge of the leather cushion, her hands folded tightly in her lap, looking as though she expected the ceiling to cave in at any moment.
“Mr. Romano,” Grace whispered, leaning closer to him so the guards wouldn't hear. “The men... your associates... they are arriving at ten o'clock for the council meeting. They shouldn't see... they shouldn't see a child here.”
Adrien took a slow sip of his black coffee. His gray eyes hardened, returning for a brief second to the cold steel that ruled the Chicago underworld.
“This is my home, Grace,” he said quietly. “Anyone who enters Greystone will accept what lives inside it, or they will be carried out through the gates. Do you understand?”
Grace looked at him—really looked at him—and saw no mockery or cruelty in his face. She saw a man who was desperately trying to remember how to be human.
“I understand,” Grace murmured.
At that moment, the heavy double doors of the dining room swung open.
Thomas Vance stepped into the room.
Thomas was fifty-two years old, tall, gray-at-the-temples, and impeccably dressed in a tailored three-piece suit. He was Adrien’s chief advisor, senior consigliere, and the only man who had remained in Adrien’s inner circle since the night Adrien’s parents were murdered eighteen years ago. Thomas had sat beside Adrien when Adrien was a frightened twenty-one-year-old taking over his father’s empire. He had slept in the room next to Adrien’s office during the turf wars of his twenties. He was the shadow behind the throne.
Thomas walked into the room carrying a dark leather document folder. He stopped dead in his tracks three feet from the table.
His sharp blue eyes swept over the scene: the wooden booster seat, the toddler pushing strawberries around a silver bowl, Grace Williams sitting in the seat reserved for high-ranking capos, and Adrien Romano—the dragon of Chicago—sitting with his sleeves rolled up, watching a child eat.
A faint, subtle twitch flicked across Thomas’s left cheekbone before he smoothed his expression back into professional composure.
“Adrien,” Thomas said, his voice deep, smooth, and measured. “I didn't realize you were entertaining guests for breakfast.”
“They aren't guests, Thomas,” Adrien said, setting his coffee cup down with a soft click. “Grace and Zoe live here.”
Thomas stared at Grace for two full seconds. The glare was brief, but Grace felt a cold draft pass through the room that had nothing to do with the morning air.
“Of course,” Thomas said, bowing his head slightly. “I came to inform you that the captains from the North Side have arrived. Julian and Leo are in the library. We need to discuss the breach at the South Chicago warehouse before the council convenes.”
Adrien nodded, wiping his hands on a linen napkin. He stood up, towering over the table.
Zoe immediately dropped her silver spoon and reached out, grabbing two fingers of Adrien’s hand with her sticky, strawberry-stained fingers.
“Where are you going, big man?” she asked, looking up at him with wide, trusting eyes.
The four guards by the door held their breath.
Adrien looked down at his hand—at the tiny, warm fingers clinging to him. He didn't pull away. He leaned down, placing his other hand over hers, unmindful of the sugar sticking to his wrist.
“I have to go to a meeting, Zoe,” he said softly. “I will be in the library.”
“Will you bring me a picture?” she asked. “Mama says you have lots of books with pictures.”
“I will bring you paper,” Adrien promised. “And crayons. All the colors you want.”
He gently released her hand, straightened his necktie, and looked at Thomas.
Thomas was watching the exchange with an unreadable expression on his face, his fingers clutching the leather document folder so tightly the leather creaked.
“Let’s go to the library, Thomas,” Adrien said, his voice returning to its cool, executive tone.
As they walked out down the long marble corridor toward the library, Thomas fell into step beside Adrien, keeping his voice low.
“Adrien,” Thomas murmured, his tone filled with fatherly concern. “Is this wise?”
“Is what wise, Thomas?”
“The housekeeper. The child,” Thomas said, leaning closer. “You have spent fifteen years keeping this house clean of liabilities. You know better than anyone that sentimentality in our business is a disease. If rival families find out you have developed an attachment to a domestic worker’s child—”
Adrien stopped walking. He turned slowly, stepping into Thomas’s space until the older man was forced to halt.
“They will find out nothing,” Adrien whispered, his gray eyes locking onto Thomas’s face like two gun barrels. “Because anyone who tries to use that child against me will cease to exist before the sun sets. Are we clear, Thomas?”
Thomas stared at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, a smooth, practiced smile spread across his face.
May you like
“Of course, Adrien,” Thomas said softly, bowing his head. “I only care about your safety. I have guarded your back for fifteen years. I would hate to see a weakness destroy everything we built.”
“It isn't a weakness, Thomas,” Adrien said, turning toward the library door. “It’s the first thing in fifteen years that makes this house worth defending.”
