Hours before Dominic Moretti was supposed to ask another woman to become his wife, four six-year-old boys stepped into his life and destroyed every plan his family had made for him.

He did not know their names.

He did not know where they lived.

But the moment the first child turned around, Dominic knew something far more dangerous.

The boy had his eyes.

Boston was shining beneath an early autumn sunset when Dominic stepped from the black sedan outside Bellamy House, one of Back Bay's most discreet restaurants.

At thirty-seven, Dominic had become a man people noticed without appearing to look at.

Six feet two.

Broad shoulders beneath an immaculate cream suit.

Dark hair pushed back from a face that rarely revealed what he was thinking.

Ink disappeared beneath the cuffs of his navy shirt and climbed the left side of his neck.

There were prettier men in Boston.

Friendlier men, certainly.

But very few men who could enter a room and make conversations grow quieter without saying a word.

The Moretti name did that.

His grandfather had arrived in Massachusetts with almost nothing.

Three generations later, the family controlled restaurants, construction companies, warehouses, properties, private security businesses, and enough unofficial influence that Dominic had learned early never to ask how certain doors opened.

Some things were better understood without being spoken aloud.

Tonight, however, none of that power mattered.

At 7:30, Dominic was expected at the Moretti conservatory overlooking the Charles River.

Sloane Barrett would be waiting.

So would both families.

And inside Dominic's jacket was a velvet box holding a diamond his mother had personally helped select.

He touched the outline through the fabric.

Nothing.

No excitement.

No nervous anticipation.

Nothing a man ought to feel before asking a woman to spend her life with him.

His phone vibrated.

His mother.

Dominic declined the call.

He had forty-seven minutes before he needed to leave.

Enough time for one drink and enough silence to convince himself that marrying Sloane was the right decision.

Love had nothing to do with it.

He had tried love once.

That had been enough.

Dominic entered the restaurant, nodded to the manager, and headed toward the private lounge at the rear.

He never reached it.

Halfway down the corridor, he noticed his cuff was a little crooked.

It irritated him more than it should have.

He entered the men's room.

Warm golden light gleamed from polished marble.

Black stone counters ran beneath tall mirrors.

Somewhere behind him, water trickled softly into a basin.

Dominic adjusted his cuff.

Then he noticed them in the mirror.

Four children.

For half a second, he thought he had entered the wrong room.

Then one of the boys turned.

He wore a pale blue cable-knit sweater over a white shirt, khaki trousers and a navy bow tie.

His brothers were dressed almost identically, except their sweaters were cream, sage green, and dusty pink.

Dominic frowned.

Quadruplets, perhaps.

The boy in blue stood on his toes and examined himself in the mirror.

Then he did something unusual.

He pushed his dark hair backward.

Tilted his head slightly to the right.

Reached his left hand behind his neck.

Dominic forgot about his cuff.

It was an insignificant gesture.

Meaningless to anyone else.

But Dominic had done exactly the same thing since he was a child whenever he was thinking.

His father used to tease him about it.

The other three boys copied their brother.

Dominic stared.

The boy in blue noticed him.

He turned.

Everything inside Dominic went still.

The eyes were wrong.

Or rather, they were too right.

Dark brown, almost black in low light.

The shape of the mouth.

The heavy eyebrows.

Even the slight crease between them when the child became suspicious.

Dominic had seen that face before.

In photographs taken in 1995.

His own.

The second boy turned.

Then the third.

Then the fourth.

Dominic Moretti had sat across tables from men who had thr3atened to destroy his family.

He had survived a car being forced from a road in Rhode Island.

He had once remained perfectly calm while a federal investigator spent four hours attempting to provoke him.

But four little boys in pastel sweaters made his pulse hammer.

The child in green looked at him with curiosity.

“Are you okay, mister?”

Dominic opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

He tried again.

“How old are you?”

The blue-sweater boy smiled.

“Six.”

One word.

One number.

It struck Dominic harder than any thr3at ever had.

Six years.

He looked from child to child.

Six years earlier, there had been a woman.

Elena Rossi.

The only woman who had ever made him imagine a different life.

She had been twenty-five when he met her.

He had been thirty-one.

She worked as an architectural restoration consultant on one of the Moretti family's historic properties in Beacon Hill.

Their first conversation had been an argument.

Dominic wanted a wall removed.

Elena told him removing it would destroy a piece of nineteenth-century craftsmanship.

Dominic informed her that he owned the building.

Elena had stared directly into his eyes and replied, “Owning something doesn't make you qualified to understand it.”

Nobody spoke to Dominic that way.

He had fallen in love with her before he was willing to admit he even liked her.

For eleven months, Elena became the part of his life nobody else controlled.

Then everything collapsed.

His father became ill.

A power struggle began inside the family.

Thr3ats arrived.

And Elena left Boston without saying goodbye.

Dominic had called.

Her number had been disconnected.

He had gone to her apartment.

Empty.

He had contacted her employer.

Resigned.

Eventually, Dominic accepted the explanation everyone around him offered.

Elena had discovered what being with a Moretti really meant.

And she had run.

Now four six-year-old boys stood in front of him.

Dominic carefully crouched.

The children did not seem frightened.

The boy in cream studied the tattoos on his hand.

“Those look painful.”

“They weren't pleasant.”

“Mom doesn't like tattoos.”

The sentence almost made Dominic laugh.

Elena had hated his tattoos.

Not morally.

She simply claimed his hands looked as though somebody had “written a very angry diary across them.”

Dominic stared at the boy.

“What's your name?”

“Leo.”

The boy in blue pointed at himself.

“I'm Luca.”

Green sweater lifted his hand.

“Nico.”

Pink sweater sighed dramatically.

“And I'm Matteo.

Everybody forgets me because I'm last.”

Dominic's heart stumbled.

Italian names.

Four boys.

Six years old.

He forced himself to breathe slowly.

“Your last name?”

The children exchanged looks.

Luca answered.

“Rossi.”

Dominic stopped breathing altogether.

Rossi.

Elena's surname.

His hand moved unconsciously toward his jacket.

He felt the engagement ring beneath his palm.

Forty minutes from now, he was supposed to give it to Sloane Barrett.

Suddenly, the little box felt absurd.

Like something belonging to another man's life.

Dominic looked at Luca.

“Who's your mother?”

The boys' expressions lit up immediately.

Before Luca could answer, heels clicked against marble beyond the door.

Then a woman's voice carried down the corridor.

“Boys?”

Dominic froze.

Six years vanished.

The restaurant vanished.

Boston vanished.

He knew that voice.

“Luca?

Leo?

Nico?

Matteo?”

All four children turned toward the doorway.

“Mom!”

They ran.

Dominic remained crouched beside the sinks.

He could have stood.

He could have walked away.

For perhaps the first time in his adult life, Dominic Moretti was afraid to open a door.

Then Elena appeared.

She was older.

Of course she was.

But six years had not erased what he remembered.

Brown hair pinned loosely behind her head.

Soft strands around her face.

Brown eyes.

The same small line appearing between her eyebrows when she was worried.

She wore a dusty rose satin dress and carried a cream purse.

“Why did all four of you disappear at—”

She saw Dominic.

Her words d!ed.

The boys gathered around her.

Dominic slowly stood.

Elena's face lost its color.

Not surprise.

That was what Dominic noticed first.

She wasn't confused.

She wasn't wondering why an old boyfriend happened to be standing beside her children.

She looked terrified.

Dominic glanced down at the four boys.

Then back at Elena.

“Hello, Elena.”

Her fingers tightened around the purse strap.

“Dominic.”

Luca looked between them.

“You know him?”

Neither adult answered.

Dominic stepped forward.

Elena instinctively stepped backward.

That hurt more than he expected.

“Elena.”

“Not here.”

“Six years.”

“I know.”

He looked at the boys.

“So do I.”

Her eyes closed briefly.

That tiny reaction told him everything.

Dominic's voice dropped.

“Are they mine?”

Elena looked toward her children.

Matteo had begun playing with his bow tie.

Nico was watching Dominic.

Leo held Elena's hand.

Luca simply stared between his mother and the stranger who looked inexplicably familiar.

“Elena.”

She finally looked at Dominic.

Her eyes were shining.

“Yes.”

One word rearranged Dominic's entire life.

He had four sons.

He had missed six birthdays.

Six Christmas mornings.

First words.

First steps.

First days of school.

Fevers.

Nightmares.

Scraped knees.

Everything.

“Why?”

Elena's lips trembled.

“Dominic, please.”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“I tried.”

His anger stopped.

“What?”

Elena glanced toward the corridor.

Then she lowered her voice.

“I tried to tell you six years ago.”

Dominic stared at her.

“You disappeared.”

“No.”

She shook her head.

“I was made to disappear.”

Before Dominic could ask who had done it, his phone began ringing.

He ignored it.

It stopped.

Immediately rang again.

Elena looked at the screen.

SLOANE.

Her expression changed.

Dominic saw the moment she understood.

“You're engaged.”

“No.”

“You're about to be.”

He looked at the ring beneath his jacket.

Not anymore.

“Elena, who made you leave?”

She hesitated.

That hesitation frightened him more than the answer.

Finally, she whispered:

“Your father.”

Dominic went completely still.

“My father d!ed five years ago.”

“I know.”

“He told me you left.”

Elena's eyes filled.

“And he told me something much worse about you.”

“What?”

She looked at their four sons.

Then back at him.

“He told me if I ever let you know those boys existed, one of us wouldn't l!ve long enough to regret it.”

Dominic stared at her.

And for the first time that night, he understood that finding his sons was only the beginning.

Because his father had been d3ad for five years.

Yet someone had continued sending Elena the same warning every single year since.

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Comment “TRUTH” if you want Part 2.