“EMPTY YOUR PURSE ON THE TABLE, YOU OLD THIEF.” THE MAFIA BOSS’S FIANCÉE HUMILIATED THE SEVENTY-SIX-YEAR-OLD WOMAN WHO HAD RAISED HIM IN FRONT OF TWENTY DINNER GUESTS—BUT WHEN I PICKED UP A SMALL PHOTOGRAPH FROM THE FLOOR, THE MOST FEARED MAN IN NEW YORK LOOKED AT HIS BRIDE-TO-BE AND ASKED, “HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN LYING TO ME?”

"My brother died in a car fire twelve years ago," Adrian said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, terrifying calm. "I buried him myself."

The man in the blue suit—Sloane’s secret husband—took a step backward. His name was Marcus, and the sweat on his forehead ruined his polished facade.

"You buried an empty casket, Valenti," Marcus stammered. "Leo knew your enemies were coming for him. He had to disappear."

Sloane lunged forward, her manicured claws aiming for the photograph.

"Shut up, Marcus! Don't say another word!"

But Adrian caught her wrist mid-air. He didn’t squeeze, but the sheer power in his grip froze her instantly.

"Claire," Adrian commanded without looking away from his fiancée. "Check her pockets."

My hands shook, but the memory of Sloane humiliating Mama Ruth fueled me. I reached into the silk lining of Sloane's designer blazer. My fingers brushed against cold metal. I pulled it out.

It was a heavy, silver pocket watch.

Scratched. Tarnished.

Adrian released Sloane and took the watch from my palm. His thumb traced a familiar dent on the casing.

"This was our grandfather’s," Adrian whispered. "Leo never took it off."

Sloane’s arrogant smile finally broke. She looked like a trapped rat.

Adrian pressed the latch. The watch popped open. Inside the cover, a fresh piece of paper was folded tightly. He pulled it out, reading the jagged handwriting.

The blood drained from the most feared mafia boss in New York.

"He’s alive," Adrian choked out, looking at Ruth. "And he’s been a prisoner for six years."