"GOD HELP ANYONE WHO LOOKS AT YOU TWICE."

The SUV passed through iron gates that rolled shut with the finality of a prison door.

Sadi stared out the tinted window. The estate was massive, built of cold gray stone and surrounded by manicured lawns that looked too perfect to be real. It was beautiful, but it felt suffocating.

Dominic sat beside her. He hadn't spoken since they left the hospital. His silence was heavy, vibrating with an energy that made Sadi acutely aware of how little she knew about the man she had just married.

The motorcade stopped in front of a wide sweeping staircase.

Before Sadi could even reach for the door handle, one of Dominic’s men opened it.

Dominic stepped out first. He turned and offered her his hand.

Sadi hesitated. She was wearing loose sweatpants and an oversized hoodie provided by Rosa—the only things that didn't aggravate the bandages wrapped tightly around her healing ribs. She felt small, broken, and entirely out of place.

She placed her hand in his. His grip was firm, supportive, but entirely businesslike.

He didn't carry her over the threshold.

He simply walked beside her, slowing his long strides to match her pained, shuffling steps.

Inside, the foyer was dizzying—marble floors, a sweeping double staircase, and a crystal chandelier that probably cost more than Sadi would have made in three lifetimes at Sal’s Diner.

Rosa was waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs.

She looked immaculate, as always, but when she saw Sadi, her stoic facade cracked. She hurried forward, taking Sadi’s free hand in both of hers.

"Welcome home, mia figlia," Rosa whispered, her eyes shining. My daughter.

Sadi swallowed hard. "Thank you, Mrs. Russo."

"Rosa," the older woman corrected gently. "Always Rosa."

Dominic cleared his throat. "Ma, she needs to rest. The doctors said stairs are out of the question for at least another week."

"Of course," Rosa nodded. "I’ve had the guest suite on the ground floor prepared. It has a walk-in shower and no steps."

Dominic guided Sadi down a wide hallway, leaving Rosa behind.

The suite was beautiful. Soft cream walls, a massive bed piled high with down comforters, and French doors leading out to a private patio.

"My men will rotate shifts outside those doors," Dominic said, pointing toward the patio. "And there are guards stationed at both ends of this hallway. You are entirely secure."

"And you?" Sadi asked, her voice rasping slightly. "Where are you?"

Dominic looked at her. "My suite is on the third floor. I have business to attend to. The Morettis are quiet, but quiet means they are planning something."

He turned to leave.

"Dominic."

He stopped, glancing back over his shoulder.

"I don't have any clothes," Sadi said quietly. "My uniform was ruined. My apartment key was in my apron."

"Your apartment was cleared out yesterday," Dominic said flatly. "Whatever was salvageable is in the wardrobe. Everything else will be replaced. My mother will arrange a tailor when you’re well enough to stand."

He didn't wait for a reply. He walked out, pulling the heavy oak door shut until it clicked.

Sadi stood alone in the massive room.

She walked slowly toward the large, antique wardrobe in the corner. She expected to find her few worn sweaters and faded jeans hanging inside.

She opened the heavy wooden doors.

The wardrobe was packed. But not with her clothes.

Row after row of expensive silk blouses, tailored slacks, and cashmere sweaters hung neatly on velvet hangers. They were all in her size. They were all brand new.

But tucked in the very corner, pushed aside as if it were trash, was a small, familiar cardboard box.

Sadi recognized it immediately.

It was the box she kept hidden beneath her bed at her apartment. The only thing she truly cared about saving.

She carefully pulled the box out, setting it on the edge of the mattress. Her ribs ached in protest.

She lifted the lid.

Inside were faded photographs, a cheap plastic watch that hadn't ticked in a decade, and a stack of letters tied with a frayed yellow ribbon.

Sadi picked up the watch.

Her father’s watch.

He had died when she was sixteen, leaving her nothing but debts and this broken piece of plastic.

She clutched it, tears finally spilling over her eyelashes. In this fortress of wealth and violence, this broken watch was the only thing that proved she existed before the shooting.

As she set the watch back down, she noticed something beneath the letters.

A piece of heavy, cream-colored stationery.

Sadi frowned. That hadn't been in her box.

She picked it up.

It was a handwritten note, the ink sharp and elegant.

Mrs. Russo.

Your husband believes the Moretti family wants you dead to settle the score. He is wrong. They want you dead because of what your father stole from them twelve years ago.

If you value your life, do not tell Dominic about this note. Ask Rosa about the ledger.

A Friend.

Sadi’s breath hitched in her throat.

Her father? Stole from the Morettis?

Her dad was a mechanic who drank too much and died of liver failure. He wasn't involved with the mob. He barely knew how to balance a checkbook.

Sadi read the note again.