“She eats upstairs,” the mafia boss’s fiancée said, lifting his mother’s dinner plate.

My heart slammed against my ribs. I reached for the photograph, but Vincent pulled it back just out of my grasp.

"Where did you get that?" I demanded, my voice trembling.

"It's my house, Claire. I know everything that comes in and out of it," Vincent said, his expression unreadable. "Who is she?"

"She's my sister," I said, the truth spilling out because there was no point in lying anymore. "Her name is Lily. She disappeared three months ago."

Rosa wheeled herself forward, her eyes fixed on the picture. "The girl from the bakery," she whispered.

I stared at her in shock. "You know her?"

"She used to bring the bread," Rosa said, her speech slow but determined. "Before the stroke. Sweet girl. Always smiling."

Vincent looked from his mother to me, the pieces clicking together in his mind. "You didn't take this job because you needed the money, did you? You took it to look for her."

"I need the money," I fired back, my fear giving way to anger. "But yes. I know she was seeing someone in this house. Someone connected to you. I thought it was you. That’s why I came."

Vincent’s jaw tightened. He looked down at the photograph, then back at the empty hallway where his brother had just fled.

"It wasn't me," Vincent said, his voice dropping an octave. "I've never seen her before in my life."

He walked over to the closet by the front door and pulled out the dark wool coat Marco had left behind in his haste. Vincent reached into the deep pockets. He pulled out a set of keys, a money clip, and finally, a crumpled piece of paper.

He smoothed it out on the table.

It was a child's drawing in bright crayon. A house with a red door, a stick-figure woman, and a little girl. At the top, written in messy, uneven letters, were the words: To Daddy Marco.

I felt the air leave my lungs. Lily didn't just have a boyfriend. She had a daughter. A daughter I didn't know about.

"Marco didn't just sleep with Vanessa," Vincent said, staring at the drawing. "He's been living a completely separate life."

He looked at me, the coldness in his eyes replaced by something much more dangerous: purpose.

"Go pack a bag, Claire," he said.