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.

I stared at the plastic hospital bracelet in Vincent’s hand.

Daniel Morgan. My brother’s name was printed in cold, black ink.

“Where is he?” I choked out, my hands trembling as I took the bracelet. “Vincent, where is my brother?”

“My men are pulling the hospital security footage now,” Vincent said, his voice a low, steady anchor in my spiraling panic. “He was admitted an hour ago. Minor injuries. But someone pulled him out before he could be treated.”

“Who?”

“That is what we are going to find out.” Vincent turned toward the front door. “My uncle claims it was a rival family sending a message. But my uncle lies.”

I followed him out into the freezing October night. The gravel crunched under our feet as his driver opened the door to the black SUV.

As I slid into the leather seat, my mind raced. Camille’s panic. The locket. The little boy. Now, my brother.

“Vincent,” I said as the car sped down the driveway. “Camille dropped something in the hallway. A locket.”

Vincent didn’t look at me. He kept his eyes on the dark road. “I know about the locket, Tessa.”

I froze. “You know she has a son?”

Vincent finally turned his head. The dashboard lights cast long shadows across his face.

“I know she had a son,” Vincent corrected softly. “He died three years ago.”

The air left my lungs. “No. I saw the photo. It looked recent. She said ‘they’ would kill him if I told you.”

Vincent’s jaw tightened. He reached into his dark wool coat and pulled out a crumpled photograph. He handed it to me.

It was the same little boy. But in this picture, he was standing next to Vincent’s uncle.

“My uncle told me the boy died in a car accident before I met Camille,” Vincent said. “He used her grief to bring her into our circle. To set up the marriage.”

“But the boy is alive,” I whispered, staring at the photo.

“Yes,” Vincent said. “And my uncle is using him to force Camille to spy on me.”

Suddenly, my phone vibrated in my pocket.

An unknown number.

I answered it.

“Tessa,” my brother’s voice was breathless, terrified. “Tessa, they have me in a warehouse off Pier 4. But I’m not alone.”

“Danny! Who is with you?”

“A little boy,” Danny whispered. “He says his mother is wearing a red dress tonight.”