"The Maid Made His Silent Sister Laugh—Then the Mafia Boss Discovered the Secret She Had Buried for Three Years**

The dining room of the Moretti estate was bathed in the warm glow of crystal chandeliers, but the tension was thick enough to suffocate a man.

Uncle Dario Moretti sat to Santiago's right. At sixty-two, Dario was a silver-haired patrician with cold, predatory eyes and the heavy silver dragon ring gleaming on his right thumb. Five lieutenants sat along the perimeter, cutting into rare prime rib with heavy silver knives.

Eleanor sat at the far end of the table, beside Sophia, who was dressed in an elegant dark green velvet dress. Sophia kept her eyes glued to her porcelain plate, but her posture was no longer collapsed; she held her spine erect, her hand gently resting near Eleanor’s knee under the tablecloth.

"I must say, nephew," Dario remarked, dabbing his mouth with a linen napkin, his gaze lingering uncomfortably on Eleanor. "The estate feels... different. A doctor turned companion? A miracle worker, they call you, Miss Brennan."

"Dr. Vance," Eleanor corrected coolly, taking a delicate sip of red wine.

Dario’s fork paused in mid-air. A faint, venomous smile touched his thin lips. "Ah. The prodigy from Boston. I read about your clinic's unfortunate... structural failure. Terrible tragedy. Fire is such an unruly beast."

Santiago’s eyes narrowed to slits of obsidian. "The doctors who examined Sophia for seven years were fools, Dario. Eleanor discovered that Sophia’s vocal cords are completely functional. Her memory is intact. In fact, her memory from the night our parents died is vivid. Photographic."

The room went dead silent. The clatter of silverware ceased. The captains shifted uncomfortably in their seats.

Dario took a slow, deliberate sip of his Barolo. "Is that so? How fascinating. And what, pray tell, does our little mute angel have to say about that tragic evening?"

Santiago leaned forward, resting his forearms on the mahogany table. "She says the Valentis didn't shoot our father. She says an insider unlocked the garden gate. She says the killer wore a silver dragon on his thumb."

Dario didn't blink. The smile remained fixed on his face, but his eyes turned completely dead.

"Children have vivid imaginations, Santiago. Trauma twists reality. You're letting a disgraced, fugitive quack poison your mind against your own blood."

"She didn't poison anything," Eleanor interrupted, her voice ringing clear and authoritative through the grand hall. "I merely gave Sophia back her voice. And the truth doesn't need words to be heard, Dario. It’s written in every drop of blood you spilled."

Dario looked at Eleanor, then chuckled softly—a dry, rattling sound.

"You always were too brave for your own good, Eleanor. Just like your little brother."

Eleanor went rigid. Her breath hitched in her throat. "What did you say?"

"You thought the Valentis burned your clinic?" Dario whispered, tilting his head with mocking pity. "Carlo Valenti was an old dinosaur. He didn't have the stomach for that kind of fire. It was my crew, Dr. Vance. I couldn't risk you getting your hands on that federal witness three years ago. And I certainly couldn't let you come to Chicago to wake up my lovely little niece."

Dario pushed his chair back.

In an instant, three of the five captains at the table stood up, drawing suppressed Glock 19s from beneath their tailored jackets. They aimed their barrels not at Dario, but at Santiago.