TAKE A PICTURE OF US, DIANE. I WANT TO REMEMBER THE NIGHT HE FINALLY CHOSE ME.” THE MAFIA BOSS'S MISTRESS HANDED HIS WIFE A PHONE IN THEIR OWN LIVING ROOM—BUT WHEN HER HUSBAND PUT HIS ARM AROUND THE YOUNGER WOMAN, HIS WIFE ASKED HIM TO DO ONE LAST THING

“It’s Victoria. She’s here. She brought two men. They just kicked our front door in, Mom. They’re looking for you.”

The blood roared in my ears. “Emily, get out of the house. Go out the back window!”

“I’m locked in the bathroom with Mark. Mom, they have guns. She keeps screaming about a picture!”

The picture.

I looked down at the passenger seat of my car where I had left my wedding portrait. The large, heavy frame.

Thirty years ago, after I took the manila envelope from my father’s casket, I had brought it home. I didn't want Daniel to know I had interfered. I had taken the back off our newly framed wedding portrait, slipped the thick stack of folded papers behind the photograph, and sealed it back up.

Victoria didn't want the portrait taken down because it ruined her aesthetic. She wanted it because someone tipped her off that the deeds were inside.

“Emily, listen to me,” I said, my voice dropping to a terrifying calm. “Put the phone on speaker. Slide it under the door so Victoria can hear me.”

“Mom, no—”

“Do it, Emily.”

I heard rustling, a thud, and then the muffled sound of Victoria’s voice echoing through the wood.

“Where is she, you little brat?”

“Victoria,” I said loudly.

The background noise stopped.

“Susan,” Victoria’s voice hissed through the speaker. “You stupid, sentimental cow. Where did you take it?”

“I have it,” I said. “And I know what’s inside it.”

Silence on the line. Then, a dark, venomous laugh.

“You think you can use those deeds? They’re in Daniel’s name. You’re just a housewife.”

“Are they?” I asked.

While holding the phone, I reached over to the passenger seat. I dug my fingernails under the cardboard backing of the wedding frame. With a sharp pull, the staples popped.

I slid my hand behind the photo of Daniel and me. My fingers brushed old, dry paper. I pulled the documents out.

I flipped open the first yellowed page, squinting in the dim light of the parking garage.

It was a property deed for Pier 4. But it wasn't in Daniel’s name.

It was in the name of Susan O’Connor. My maiden name.

Daniel hadn't stolen the waterfront for himself. He had stolen it and put it in my name to protect it from seizure if he ever got caught. Legally, I owned half of Chicago’s shipping lanes.

“You’re wrong, Victoria,” I said into the phone. “My name is on the paper. Which means I am the only person who can sign it over to your family.”

I heard her swear sharply.

“Leave my daughter's house right now,” I commanded. “Or I will take these papers to the FBI, and the Rossi family will lose the waterfront forever.”

“You wouldn't dare,” she spat. “Daniel will be dead by morning if you do.”

“If you touch a hair on my daughter's head, I won't care what happens to Daniel.”

A long, agonizing pause.

“Where do we meet?” she finally asked.

“The old warehouse on Pier 4. One hour. Just you.”

“I’m bringing my men.”

“Then I’m bringing a lighter,” I bluffed.

I hung up. My hands were shaking so violently I dropped the phone.

I was a fifty-four-year-old woman who baked muffins for the church bake sale. I was driving to a dark pier to negotiate with the mafia.

But as I looked at the old photo of Daniel and me—the one that had hidden my power for thirty years—I realized I wasn't just a housewife anymore.

I drove to the waterfront. The pier was abandoned, rotting wood and rusted metal groaning in the wind. I parked my car, headlights illuminating the massive doors of Warehouse 4.

I stepped out into the freezing rain, the deeds tucked safely inside my coat, my hand gripping the heavy brass key from the locker as a makeshift weapon.

A sleek black SUV pulled up ten minutes later.

Victoria stepped out. She was alone, but she looked furious. The glamorous mistress from my living room was gone, replaced by a desperate, cornered animal.

“Give them to me,” she demanded, marching through the rain.

“Not until you call off the hit on Daniel.”

Victoria stopped ten feet away and let out a harsh, bitter laugh.

“You think I ordered the hit? You think I want him dead?”

“You’re a Rossi,” I said.

“Yes, I am!” she screamed over the wind. “And my father has my son, Susan! He took Leo!”

I froze. “What?”

“My father found out about my affair with Daniel. He hates Daniel. He took my five-year-old boy, and he told me I had to get the deeds and destroy your family, or I would never see my son again.” Victoria fell to her knees in the wet gravel, sobbing. “I don't care about Daniel. I just want my baby back.”

Before I could process this reversal, headlights blinded us.

Three black town cars sped onto the pier, boxing us in.

The doors flew open, and armed men poured out.

And from the center car stepped the head of the Rossi family.

But it wasn't the old Don.