“HE'S STEALING FOOD FROM OUR GUESTS! SEARCH HIS POCKETS!” THE MAFIA BOSS'S FIANCÉE SCREAMED WHEN SHE CAUGHT AN 82-YEAR-OLD MAN HIDING A SLICE OF WEDDING CAKE IN HIS JACKET—BUT WHEN HIS 27-YEAR-OLD MAID KNELT TO WIPE THE FROSTING FROM HIS TREMBLING HANDS, THE OLD MAN BEGAN CRYING. “PLEASE, SWEETHEART

"You're lying."

Matteo’s voice didn’t rise, but it held a sharp, lethal edge.

He snatched the toxicology report from Evelyn’s hand.

I stood on the bottom step of the staircase, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Evelyn crossed her arms, a triumphant smirk replacing her earlier panic.

"Read it yourself, darling," she said. "High levels of heavy metals found in June’s routine blood work last month. The doctor thought it was a mistake. I hired a private investigator."

Matteo scanned the paper. His jaw tightened.

"This is from Dr. Evans," Matteo said. "My father’s old physician."

"Exactly," Evelyn purred. "Henry has been mixing it into her food. That’s why her dementia accelerated so quickly this year. He wanted her out of her misery, and he was making sure he got the cottage all to himself."

I couldn't stay quiet anymore.

"That's a lie!" I shouted, stepping off the stairs. "I watch Henry feed her every single day. He tastes everything first to make sure it isn't too hot. If he was poisoning her, he'd be sick too!"

Evelyn glared at me. "Shut your mouth, you little brat. You're just a maid."

"She’s right," Matteo said quietly.

Evelyn blinked. "What?"

"Abigail is right." Matteo looked up from the paper. "Henry wouldn't poison his wife. And this report is dated three weeks ago. You expect me to believe you knew about this and didn't tell me until tonight?"

Evelyn’s confidence faltered. "I was building a case—"

"You were building a narrative," Matteo interrupted. He turned to his security chief. "Dante. Lock Evelyn in the east wing. If she tries to leave, restrain her."

"Matteo, you can't do this!" Evelyn screamed as Dante grabbed her arm. "We're getting married!"

"Not until I find out what is under the greenhouse," Matteo replied.

He turned to me. "Abigail. Come with me. Bring a flashlight."

I grabbed a heavy-duty flashlight from the kitchen drawer and followed Matteo out the back door.

The storm had passed, leaving the night air thick and cold.

We walked past the manicured gardens toward the old greenhouse at the edge of the property. It had been abandoned for years, its glass panes covered in climbing ivy.

Matteo pushed the heavy rusted door open. The smell of damp earth and rotting wood filled my lungs.

"My father spent his last days in here," Matteo said softly, sweeping his phone flashlight across the overgrown weeds. "He told everyone he was tending to his orchids. But he was hiding something."

"Where do we look?" I asked.

"The note said under the floorboards."

We moved to the center of the greenhouse, where a raised wooden platform used to hold the heavy ceramic pots.

I shone my light on the wooden planks.

"Look," I said, pointing to a corner where the nails had been pried up and hammered back down poorly.

Matteo knelt, his expensive trousers soaking in the mud. He dug his fingers under the edge of the wood and pulled with all his strength.

The old wood snapped.

Beneath the platform was a hollowed-out square in the dirt.

Inside sat a heavy, rusted metal lockbox.

Matteo pulled it out. He took the tiny iron key we’d found inside the gold pocket watch and slid it into the lock.

It turned with a satisfying click.

Matteo opened the lid.

Inside were two stacks of paper and a single, faded photograph.

Matteo picked up the first stack. His eyes widened.

"These are bank records," Matteo said, his voice hard. "Evelyn's family. The Crosses."

"What do they say?" I asked, shining the light closer.

"They're bankrupt. They have been for five years. Her father owes millions to the Irish syndicate in Boston. If she doesn't marry me, her family is dead."

So that was it. She wasn't just cruel; she was desperate.

Matteo put the papers down and picked up the second document.

It was a legal deed, stamped and notarized by the state of Connecticut.

Matteo read it once. Then he read it again. His hands started to shake.

"I don't understand," he whispered.

"What is it, sir?"

"It's the deed to the entire Russo estate," Matteo said, looking at me with pure shock. "The main house, the grounds, the syndicates' legal fronts. Everything."

"I thought you owned it?"

"So did I," Matteo breathed. "But my father transferred total ownership of the estate three days before he died."

"To who? Evelyn?"

"No." Matteo looked up toward the cottage in the distance. "To Henry Bell."

The gardener owned the mafia boss's empire.

"We need to talk to Henry," Matteo said, grabbing the box. "Now."

We rushed back to the main house and took the stairs two at a time to the guest room.

Henry was sitting exactly where we left him, holding his sleeping wife’s hand.

Matteo walked in and placed the metal box on the bed beside Henry.

Henry looked at the box.

Then he closed his eyes and let out a long, heavy sigh.

"I told Dominic this day would come," Henry whispered.

"You own my home, Henry," Matteo said, his voice trembling with confusion. "You own everything. Why are you living in a broken-down cottage wearing taped shoes?"

Henry finally looked up.

"Because I didn't want the money, Nicky. I only took the deed to honor your father’s final wish."

"Which was what?" Matteo demanded.

Henry looked past Matteo.

He looked directly at me.

"To make sure that when the time was right," Henry said softly, "the estate would legally pass to its rightful heir."

Henry reached into the metal box and pulled out the single faded photograph.