PUT THAT ALBUM AWAY! NO ONE WANTS TO LOOK AT HIS DEAD WIFE DURING MY ENGAGEMENT DINNER!” THE MAFIA BOSS’S FIANCÉE HUMILIATED HIS 27-YEAR-OLD HOUSEKEEPER FOR HELPING HIS THIRTEEN-YEAR-OLD SON SAVE A SEAT FOR HIS LATE MOTHER—BUT WHEN AN OLD PHOTOGRAPH FELL BESIDE ANTHONY DELUCA’S PLATE,

My hands trembled as I took the envelope.

The handwriting was elegant, faded with time. Isabella’s handwriting.

Noah stepped back, looking up at me with wide, tear-filled eyes. “Open it, Emily.”

I slid my finger under the seal and pulled out a single sheet of heavy stationery.

Dear Emily,

If Anthony is giving you this, it means the darkness I tried to bury has finally come to light. It means you know what your brave mother did for us.

Margaret refused to take the money I offered her. She said a child was a gift, not a transaction. But I knew she was sick. I knew she was worried about your future.

I couldn't give her cash without raising Victoria's suspicions. So, I bought something instead. Something Victoria could never touch.

I paused, my vision blurring with tears. Anthony gently placed a hand on my shoulder, steadying me.

I kept reading.

Enclosed is the deed to a property in upstate New York. It is fully paid for, in a trust under your name, waiting for your twenty-first birthday. Your mother wanted you to have a safe place. A home no one could ever take away from you.

I gasped, looking inside the envelope. Behind the letter was a folded legal document. A deed to a house.

I also leave you with one final truth, the letter concluded. Margaret didn’t just save Noah. She saved me. When the clinic discovered Victoria's forged medical records, they didn't just disqualify her. They found something else in her bloodwork. Something that proves Victoria was never going to walk away quietly.

The letter ended there.

I looked up at Anthony. “What did they find in her bloodwork?”

Anthony’s jaw tightened. He looked at Aunt Rosa, who was watching us grimly from the end of the table.

“Rosa,” Anthony said. “Call Dr. Evans. Wake him up if you have to. I want Victoria’s original medical files from St. Jude’s pulled immediately.”

“He won’t release them without a court order, Anthony,” Rosa warned.

“Tell him I’m not asking,” Anthony replied softly. It was the tone that reminded everyone in the room exactly who he was.

An hour later, the house was eerily quiet. The police had taken Arthur in for questioning. The broken glass and ruined photographs had been swept away.

Noah was sitting on the sofa in the study, wrapped in a blanket, his head resting against my arm. He had refused to go to bed unless I stayed with him.

Anthony walked into the study, holding a faxed document. His face was unreadable.

“Dad?” Noah asked, sitting up.

Anthony sat down on the coffee table facing us. He looked at the paper, then at me.

“Dr. Evans sent the file,” Anthony said. “When the clinic ran Victoria’s bloodwork eight years ago, they didn’t just find a genetic heart defect.”

He handed the paper to me.

“They found high levels of a specific chemical compound. A neurotoxin.”

I stared at the medical jargon, my nursing knowledge from caring for my father kicking in. “This is a slow-acting poison. Often used in agricultural pesticides.”

“Exactly,” Anthony said. “Victoria wasn’t poisoning herself. She was building an immunity.”

Noah looked confused. “Immunity for what?”

“To pass a toxicity screening,” I breathed, the horrifying reality dawning on me. “If she had small amounts in her system, she could claim accidental exposure if anyone ever questioned her.”

Anthony nodded slowly. “She was planning to use it on Isabella. Long before the brakes were ever cut.”

The room went cold. Victoria hadn’t snapped in a moment of jealous rage. She had been methodically planning Isabella’s murder for months.

“But there’s something else,” Anthony said, his voice dropping to a whisper. He pointed to a small handwritten note at the bottom of the faxed page.

Patient exhibits signs of recent, severe physical trauma. Unreported.

“What does that mean?” Noah asked.

“It means,” Aunt Rosa said from the doorway, leaning on her cane, “that Victoria didn’t act alone. Someone was controlling her.”

Anthony stood up, his eyes blazing. “Arthur.”

“No,” Rosa shook her head. “Arthur is a weak man. He gambles. He lies. But he doesn’t beat his daughter.”

“Then who?” Anthony demanded.

Rosa pulled a small, silver pocket watch from her cardigan. She held it out to Anthony.

“I found this in Victoria’s purse before the police took it. I recognized it immediately.”

Anthony took the watch. He popped the lid open. Inside was an engraving of a roaring lion.

The color drained from Anthony’s face completely.

“This belongs to Marcus,” Anthony whispered.

Marcus. Anthony’s older brother. The man who had been exiled to Italy ten years ago for trying to steal control of the family business.

“Marcus sent her,” Anthony said, his voice terrifyingly calm. “Victoria was never an obsessed stalker. She was an assassin. Sent by my brother to kill my wife, take my son, and inherit my empire.”

Before any of us could process the shock, the heavy oak doors of the study blew open.

Standing in the hallway was a man in a tailored black suit, holding a suppressed pistol.