"GOD HELP ANYONE WHO LOOKS AT YOU TWICE."

Sadi shoved the note back into the cardboard box and slammed the lid shut just as the door opened.

She sat on the edge of the bed, her heart hammering wildly against her sore ribs, trying to look perfectly calm.

It wasn't Dominic.

It was Rosa.

The older woman carried a silver tray with a steaming porcelain teapot and two delicate cups.

"I thought you might need something to help you sleep," Rosa said, her voice smooth and maternal, though her sharp eyes immediately caught Sadi’s elevated breathing. "Is everything alright, Sadi? You look pale."

"Just pain," Sadi lied smoothly, a survival tactic she had perfected over years of double shifts and dealing with angry customers. "The medication makes me jittery."

Rosa set the tray down on a small round table near the window.

"Sit with me," Rosa invited, pouring the tea. "It’s chamomile. It will help."

Sadi slowly pushed herself up from the bed, grabbing her father’s broken plastic watch from the box before walking over to the table. She sat down carefully, her eyes locked on Rosa.

Ask Rosa about the ledger.

"You seem very comfortable here, Rosa," Sadi started cautiously, cradling the warm teacup. "I mean, considering the violence."

Rosa didn't look up from her tea.

"When you marry into this life, Sadi, you learn very quickly that comfort is an illusion. You trade safety for power. My husband, Dominic’s father, taught me that."

Sadi took a sip of her tea. "And Dominic? Is he like his father?"

Rosa finally looked up. Her eyes were exactly like Dominic’s—gray, cold, and entirely unreadable.

"Dominic is better than his father," Rosa said quietly. "His father was a butcher. Dominic is a businessman. He uses violence as a tool, not a toy."

Sadi set her cup down, tracing the rim with her thumb.

"Rosa, my father died twelve years ago."

Rosa’s hand paused on the handle of her teacup.

"I’m sorry to hear that," Rosa said, her tone perfectly even.

"He was a mechanic," Sadi pushed, her pulse quickening. "He struggled with money. But before he died, he was terrified. He used to look out the windows at night. I thought it was paranoia from the alcohol."

Rosa remained silent.

"Did you know him, Rosa?" Sadi asked directly. "Did you know a mechanic named Arthur Flynn?"

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.

Rosa slowly placed her cup on the saucer. The porcelain clinked sharply.

She reached up to the high collar of her immaculate wool sweater. With deliberate, agonizing slowness, Rosa unfastened the top three buttons and pulled the fabric aside.

Sadi gasped.

Running across Rosa’s collarbone, just below a string of pearls, was a thick, jagged, silvery scar.

It was an old wound. A brutal one.

"Twelve years ago," Rosa said, her voice dropping into a low, dangerous whisper, "the Moretti family tried to assassinate my husband. They failed, but I took a bullet intended for his throat."

Sadi stared at the scar, her mind spinning.

"The man who drove the getaway car for the Morettis that night," Rosa continued, re-buttoning her sweater with steady hands, "was a freelance mechanic looking to pay off a gambling debt. His name was Arthur Flynn."

Sadi felt as if all the air had been sucked out of the room.

Her father hadn't just been a drunk. He had been a getaway driver for a mob hit.

"Dominic doesn't know," Rosa said flatly. "He was away at boarding school when it happened. My husband handled the fallout. He swore me to secrecy."

"If your husband handled it," Sadi choked out, "why didn't he kill my father?"

Rosa looked at Sadi, a cold, chilling smile touching her lips.

"Because your father had leverage, Sadi. He wasn't just driving the car. While the Morettis were failing to kill my husband, your father was in their safehouse. He stole their master ledger."

Sadi’s breath hitched.

The note was right.

"The ledger contains every dirty politician, every bribed judge, every offshore account the Morettis use," Rosa explained. "Your father hid it. He told the Morettis that if anything happened to him, or his daughter, the ledger would be sent to the FBI."

"He used it to keep us alive," Sadi whispered, staring at the plastic watch in her hand.

"Yes," Rosa nodded. "But he died of liver failure before he could tell them where it was. The Morettis have been searching for it for a decade. They thought you knew where it was. That’s why they never touched you."

"Until I saved you at the diner," Sadi realized, nausea washing over her.

"Exactly," Rosa said. "When you threw yourself in front of me, you broke the unwritten rule. You inserted yourself into the war. The Morettis realized you were more valuable dead—a message to Dominic—than alive with a secret you likely didn't even possess."

Sadi looked at Rosa, a terrifying thought clicking into place.

"Who sent the shooters to the diner, Rosa?"

Rosa stood up, smoothing her skirt.

"The Morettis, of course," Rosa said, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of something Sadi couldn't read.

Before Sadi could push further, the French doors leading to the patio suddenly rattled violently.

Someone was trying to get in.

Sadi jumped, knocking her teacup over. The hot liquid spilled across the table.

Through the glass, silhouetted by the moonlight, stood one of Dominic’s guards.

But he wasn't standing guard.