THE DEAD WOMAN’S VOICE IN THE DINING ROOM

The heavy oak doors were locked solid.

Luca didn't shout. He didn't bang his fists against the wood. He just stared at the brass handles, his jaw locked in a rigid line of pure fury.

“Arthur,” Luca said, his voice deadly quiet. “Open this door.”

“I can’t do that, Boss,” Arthur’s muffled voice replied. “Your father gave me one order before he died in that crash. Protect his bastard son at all costs. And to do that, the Bellinis can never know he exists.”

Vanessa rushed to the door, pounding on it with her fists.

“Where is he?!” she screamed. “Where is my brother’s baby?!”

“He’s not your brother’s baby, Vanessa,” Arthur called back. “He’s a Moretti. And he’s going to inherit everything once you and Luca are out of the way.”

I smelled it before I saw it.

A sharp, chemical odor biting the air.

I looked down. A dark liquid was seeping under the gap in the doorway, staining the expensive Persian rug.

Gasoline.

“Luca!” I panicked, pointing at the floor.

Luca’s eyes widened. He grabbed me by the waist and pulled me back, yanking Vanessa away from the door by the collar of her satin dress.

“He’s burning the house down,” Luca realized.

“With us in it?!” Vanessa shrieked.

“Arthur!” Luca roared. “You think the syndicate will let you lead? They’ll kill you the second I’m dead!”

“They won't know it was me,” Arthur’s voice was fading as he walked down the hall. “It’s a tragic accident. A fire started by a jealous fiancée. Goodbye, Luca.”

A second later, a brilliant orange flash illuminated the gap under the door.

The gasoline caught.

Flames roared up the outside of the oak doors, eating away at the wood with terrifying speed. Black smoke began to curl into the study, choking the air.

“The windows!” Luca yelled, grabbing a heavy bronze statue from his desk.

He hurled it at the floor-to-ceiling reinforced glass.

The statue bounced off with a dull thud.

“Bulletproof,” Luca cursed, coughing as the smoke thickened. “My father installed them.”

I dropped to my knees, pressing my face against the floor where the air was still breathable.

“We’re going to die here,” Vanessa sobbed, sinking down next to me. Her perfect hair was a mess, her mascara running down her cheeks.

“No, we’re not,” I said, coughing.

I looked at Luca. “The air vents. When I clean this room, I have to unscrew the grate behind your bookshelf. It leads to the central HVAC shaft.”

Luca didn't hesitate. He rushed to the massive mahogany bookshelf.

With a roar of effort, he braced his shoulder against the wood and pushed. The heavy shelf groaned, then tipped forward, crashing to the floor in a shower of expensive books.

Behind it was a large metal grate.

Luca kicked it. Once. Twice.

The metal bent, the screws tearing out of the drywall. He ripped the grate away, revealing a dark, narrow aluminum shaft.

“Go!” Luca ordered, grabbing Vanessa and shoving her toward the opening.

She scrambled inside.

“Emma, your turn,” he said, coughing violently as the study doors began to splinter from the heat.

I crawled into the shaft. The metal was cold, the space terrifyingly tight, but the air was clear. Luca squeezed in right behind me.

We crawled on our hands and knees in pitch blackness for what felt like hours, though it could only have been minutes.

Finally, a faint sliver of moonlight appeared ahead.

“It’s a vent leading to the gardens,” Luca rasped behind me. “Kick it out.”

I pushed with both feet. The vent popped off, clattering onto the soft grass outside.

We tumbled out into the cool night air, gasping and coughing.

The east wing of the mansion was fully engulfed in flames. Sirens wailed in the distance.

“We have to go,” Luca said, pulling me to my feet. “Arthur has men surrounding the perimeter. If they see us, they’ll shoot.”

He grabbed Vanessa’s hand, and we sprinted into the dense woods bordering the estate.

We ran until my lungs burned and my legs felt like lead. Finally, Luca stopped us near the old stone wall at the edge of the property.

“We’re safe here for a minute,” he panted.

Vanessa leaned against a tree, sobbing uncontrollably.

“I lost everything,” she cried. “My father, my brother, the baby…”

Luca looked at her, his expression softening just a fraction. The betrayal was still there, but the shared near-death experience had shifted something between them.

“The baby isn't yours, Vanessa,” Luca said quietly. “He’s my brother.”

I leaned against the cold stone wall, trying to catch my breath.

“If Arthur hid the boy,” I said, “where is he? Arthur doesn't have any children.”

Luca froze.

He looked at me in the moonlight.

“No,” Luca said. “But he has a nephew.”

My stomach dropped.

“Marco,” I whispered.

Marco. Luca’s personal driver. The quiet, fiercely loyal twenty-two-year-old man who took Luca everywhere.

“Arthur raised Marco,” Luca realized, horror dawning on his face. “He told me Marco was his sister’s kid. But Marco is exactly twenty years old.”

Suddenly, a flashlight beam cut through the darkness, blinding us.

“Don't move,” a voice commanded.