GET THAT WALKER OUT OF MY DINING ROOM. MY PHOTOGRAPHER WILL BE HERE IN TEN MINUTES, AND I’M NOT HAVING OUR ENGAGEMENT PHOTOS LOOK LIKE A HOSPITAL VISIT.” THE MAFIA BOSS’S FIANCÉE ORDERED HIS 24-YEAR-OLD MAID TO TAKE AWAY HIS MOTHER’S WALKER—BUT WHEN THE OLD WOMAN TRIED TO STAND FOR THE TOAST, VINCENT RUSSO SAW WHAT HIS FIANCÉE HAD BEEN DOING TO HER FOR WEEKS.

The dining room doors closed, leaving a heavy silence in the hallway.

Inside, the toast was over. The clinking of crystal glasses had stopped.

I stood by the grand staircase, my heart hammering against my ribs. I had just exposed the future wife of Vincent Russo in front of his entire family. Jobs like mine didn’t just end over things like this. In a family like the Russos, they ended badly.

A sharp click of heels broke my thoughts.

Camille burst through the heavy mahogany doors. Her red satin gown swept angrily across the floor. She didn't look back at the dining room. She walked straight toward me, her eyes dark and frantic.

“You think you won something?” she hissed, stopping inches from my face.

I didn’t step back. “I just answered his question, Miss Grant.”

“You meddling little girl.” Her voice was shaking, but not just with anger. It was panic. “You have no idea what is actually happening in this house. You think Mrs. Russo is just a sweet old woman? You think Vincent is just a protective son?”

Before I could answer, her hands trembled, and her clutch slipped.

It hit the marble floor. The clasp snapped open.

Lipstick, a compact, and a heavy silver locket spilled out.

The locket popped open on impact.

I knelt instinctively to help her pick it up, but Camille lunged, shoving my shoulder so hard I hit the banister.

“Don't touch it!” she snapped.

But I had already seen it.

Inside the locket wasn’t a picture of Vincent. It was a picture of a little boy, maybe five years old, with Camille’s exact green eyes.

Camille snatched the necklace, her chest heaving. The sheer terror in her eyes made the breath catch in my throat. She wasn’t a cold, untouchable mafia queen anymore. She looked like a cornered animal.

“If you tell him,” she whispered, her voice cracking, “they will kill him. Do you understand me? They will kill him.”

She turned and ran up the stairs.

I stood frozen. They. Not Vincent. They.

“Tessa.”

I spun around. Vincent was standing in the dining room doorway. His dark eyes shifted from the stairs to me.

He walked slowly toward me, reaching into his suit pocket.

“My uncle just received a text message,” Vincent said quietly. “About your brother.”

My blood ran cold. “What about my brother?”