The Girl Beneath the Mafia Boss’s Shadow

The salon smelled of roses, expensive shampoo, and money.

I stood near the entrance, afraid to touch anything. The marble floor reflected the chandeliers overhead, and the women sitting beneath the mirrors watched me as if Adrian had brought a wild animal indoors.

He noticed.

“Everyone out,” he said.

The manager blinked.

“Sir?””

“Clients and employees who aren't assigned to Wren's appointment. Give us privacy.””

The manager hurried to comply.

Within minutes, the salon had emptied except for Adrian, his driver, two men stationed by the doors, the manager, and a stylist named Camille.

Camille looked to be in her fifties. Her dark hair was pulled into a neat bun, and she wore no jewelry except a small gold cross.

She approached me slowly.

“Sweetheart, would you like some water?””

I nodded.

She brought me a glass and waited until I had finished half of it before asking, “Would you like to sit down?””

I lowered myself into the chair.

My reflection stared back at me from the enormous mirror.

I looked older than my years. My cheeks were hollow, my skin weathered, and my eyes seemed too large for my face. My hair concealed most of my features, spilling across my shoulders and curling around the chair like a dark, tangled blanket.

Camille gently lifted a section.

“Oh, honey.””

I stiffened.

“Don't.””

She immediately released it.

“I'm sorry. I wasn't going to hurt you.””

“Everybody says that.””

The words escaped before I could stop them.

Silence settled over the room.

Adrian stood several feet behind me. I could feel his attention without looking at him.

Camille crouched so that we were eye level.

“We don't have to do anything you're not comfortable with. We can wash it, detangle it, or leave it exactly as it is. You decide.””

I stared at her reflection.

“You won't cut it?””

“Not without your permission.””

I wanted to believe her.

But a memory had begun stirring behind my eyes, a fragment of a room filled with smoke, a woman's hands trembling as she braided my hair.

Keep it long, sweetheart.

Don't let them see.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

“Wren?”” Adrian asked.

“I'm fine.””

“You don't look fine.””

“Maybe stop looking at me.””

He went quiet.

I expected him to argue. Powerful men usually treated silence as a challenge.

Instead, he stepped away.

“All right.””

The simple response made my throat tighten.

Camille began examining the knots without pulling them. She worked carefully, separating sections with her fingers.

“Some of this hair may be salvageable,” she explained.

“But we'll need time. If you're ready, I'd like to start with the ends.””

I watched her reach for a pair of scissors.

My entire body went rigid.

“No.””

She stopped.

“Okay.””

“No cutting.””

“Then no cutting.””

I gripped the arms of the chair.

Adrian came around to my side.

“What are you afraid will happen?””

“Nothing.””

“Wren.””

I hated the way he said my name. Not because it was unkind, but because he sounded as though he expected there to be a person beneath it, someone worth understanding.

“I don't know,” I whispered.

“Then we won't do anything until you do.””

I looked up at him.

“Why do you care so much?””

He seemed to consider the question carefully.

“Because someone cared enough about me to teach me that power means nothing if you use it only to protect yourself.””

“Your family?””

His face darkened.

“Sometimes family is the reason you need protection.””

I thought of the three men in the alley.

“Was Vincent one of them?””

Adrian's eyes sharpened.

“Who told you that name?””

“The men looking for you.””

He exchanged a glance with his driver.

“Vincent is my brother.””

“Your brother tried to kill you?””

“My brother ordered people to kill me.””

The distinction chilled me.

Adrian spoke without raising his voice, but there was a coldness underneath his words that hadn't been there before.

“For years, Vincent and I disagreed about the family business. I wanted to dismantle the parts that relied on violence. He believes fear is the only language people understand.””

“And you?””

“I used to believe the same thing.””

He looked at the black card lying on the counter.

“Then I met someone who reminded me what it feels like to have nothing.””

I turned toward the mirror.

For a moment, I wondered if he could see himself in me. A person who had survived by hiding, whose life had been shaped by things he couldn't discuss.

Then Camille gently touched my shoulder.

“Sweetheart, I have another suggestion. We can begin by washing your hair without cutting a single strand. Would that be all right?””

I hesitated.

Then I nodded.

The washing took nearly an hour.

Camille worked slowly, using warm water and conditioner, loosening the knots one by one. She didn't complain about the dirt or the smell. When the water grew cold, she asked someone to warm it. When my scalp hurt, she stopped.

No one had ever treated my discomfort as something that mattered.

I sat with my eyes closed while warm water flowed over my head.

And I remembered fire.

Not the small flames from a trash can where I sometimes warmed my hands.

A house fire.

Gold curtains.

A staircase.

A woman screaming from somewhere beyond the smoke.

My name.

Not Wren.

Another name.

I jerked upright, sending water across the basin.

“Stop!””

Camille immediately turned off the tap.

Adrian rushed forward.

“What happened?””

“I heard someone.””

“Who?””

“I don't know.””

My breathing quickened. I pressed both hands to my ears.

“She was screaming. She kept saying—”

The memory vanished.

I began to cry.

I hadn't cried in front of another person for years. Tears had always seemed like an invitation for someone to take advantage of me.

But Camille wrapped a towel around my shoulders without asking questions, and Adrian stood nearby without trying to force me to explain.

Eventually, my breathing steadied.

“I think I knew someone,” I whispered.

“Someone from your childhood?”” Adrian asked.

“I don't remember her face.””

“That's all right.””

“No, it isn't!”” I snapped.

He went still.

“I don't remember anything. I don't know where I was born. I don't know who left me on that church step.

I don't know why I can't remember my own childhood.”” My voice broke.

“And everybody acts like I'm supposed to be grateful just because I'm alive.””

Adrian absorbed the anger without defending himself.

“You're allowed to be angry.””

The permission undid me more than pity would have.

I wiped my cheeks with the towel.

“Can we finish?””

Camille nodded.

This time, when she lifted the scissors, I didn't recoil.

“Only the damaged ends,” she promised.

I closed my eyes.

The first snip sounded louder than a gunshot.

A lock of hair fell into Camille's hand.

My fingers dug into the chair.

Another lock fell.

Then another.

The weight gradually disappeared from my shoulders. Beneath the tangled mass, my hair was dark brown, almost black, with a faint copper sheen beneath the salon lights.

Camille worked around the back of my head.

Then she stopped.

Her fingers went motionless.

“Mr. Kane?””

Adrian turned.

“What is it?””

Camille carefully moved the hair away from the skin behind my left ear.

A small crescent-shaped birthmark lay just below my hairline.

Adrian's face lost every trace of color.

For several seconds, he didn't speak.

Then he took a step closer.

“Wren, don't move.””

My stomach tightened.

“What?””

He stared at the mark as if it had opened a door to a room he had spent years trying to forget.

“Where did you get that?””

I touched it.

“I was born with it.””

“Are you certain?””

I pulled my hand away.

“What kind of question is that?””

He didn't answer. Instead, he reached into his coat and removed his phone. His fingers trembled as he opened a photograph.

It showed a little girl standing between a wealthy couple in front of a white mansion. The girl wore a pale blue dress and held a stuffed rabbit against her chest.

Her eyes were bright blue.

A crescent-shaped mark sat behind her left ear.

I leaned closer to the screen.

My breath caught.

The girl's eyes were my eyes.

Her chin, her nose, the faint curve of her mouth—every detail felt familiar in a way that made my skin prickle.

“Who is she?””

Adrian swallowed.

“Isabella Whitmore.””

The name moved through me like a key turning in a lock.

I gripped the chair.

“Why does she look like me?””

“Because she disappeared ten years ago.””

He showed me another photograph. This one featured a mansion surrounded by police cars. A black ribbon hung from the front gate, and a crowd stood behind barricades.

“The Whitmore family was one of the wealthiest families in New York,” Adrian explained.

“Isabella was their only child. She vanished during a fire at their estate. Her parents were told she died, but no body was ever recovered.””

“Why would you have her photograph?””

“My father did business with the Whitmores. I met Isabella when she was little.””

He looked at the screen again.

“She used to follow me around at family gatherings, asking me to teach her how to play chess. She hated losing. If she couldn't win, she'd rearrange the pieces and insist we were playing a different game.””

Despite myself, I almost smiled.

A tiny fragment of something stirred in my mind.

A chessboard.

A man's laugh.

A little girl shouting, “That's not fair!””

Then it was gone.

I pressed my fingers against my temples.

“I remember a house.””

Adrian leaned closer.

“What kind of house?””

“White walls. A staircase. A woman wearing gold.””

My voice dropped.

“There was smoke.””

Adrian's expression changed.

“Wren, listen to me. If you are Isabella Whitmore, then someone may have spent ten years making sure you never remembered who you were.””

I looked at the photograph again.

“Why would anyone do that?””

Before he could answer, his phone began vibrating.

The name on the screen made his entire body go still.

VINCENT KANE.

Adrian answered without taking his eyes off me.

“What do you want?””

His brother's voice was loud enough for me to hear.

“I heard you survived last night. Congratulations.””

Adrian's jaw tightened.

“You sent three men to murder me.””

“I sent men to retrieve something that belongs to this family.””

“I'm not property, Vincent.””

“No,” Vincent replied.

“You're an obstacle.””

Adrian moved away from me, but I could still hear every word.

“Stay away from the Whitmore investigation.””

The blood drained from my face.

Adrian's gaze snapped toward me.

Vincent continued.

“Some graves should remain undisturbed. Especially the ones that were never properly filled.””

Adrian's voice became dangerously quiet.

“What do you know about Isabella?””

A brief silence followed.

Then Vincent laughed.

“Nothing that concerns you.””

The call ended.

Adrian lowered the phone.

I could no longer feel my hands.

“He knows,” I whispered.

Adrian turned toward me.

“He suspects.””

“No. He knows.””

The certainty frightened me. I couldn't explain it, but Vincent's voice had awakened something inside me, a memory of a man standing in a doorway while flames climbed the walls behind him.

A gold ring.

A cold smile.

A woman's hand pushing me beneath a table.

Don't let him find you, Isabella.

I stumbled out of the chair.

“Get me out of here.””

Adrian caught my arm before I fell.

“Wren—”

“Get me out!””

He released me immediately and turned to his driver.

“Secure the exits. Nobody enters or leaves without my authorization.””

Then he faced me again.