THE MAFIA BOSS NOTICED HIS 61-YEAR-OLD HOUSEKEEPER SERVING THANKSGIVING DINNER WITH ONLY ONE HAND—THEN HIS FIANCÉE SAID, “SHE BURNED HERSELF ON THE OVEN,” BEFORE HE EVEN ASKED WHY HER WRIST WAS BANDAGED. “Maria, pour the gravy.”

I couldn’t breathe. I reached out and touched the cold silver metal of the watch. It was undeniably his. The small scratch near the hinge. The intricate engraving of a wolf on the front cover. My husband, David, had been a baker. A quiet, gentle man who smelled of flour and yeast. He died of a sudden heart attack twelve years ago. He had no enemies. He had no secrets. Or so I thought. I picked up the watch and clicked the top button. The silver lid popped open. The hands on the clock were frozen at exactly 11:42. But it wasn't the time that made my blood run cold. Tucked inside the lid of the watch was a tiny, folded piece of paper. I pulled it out with trembling fingers. Written in perfectly typed, black ink was a single sentence: David didn’t lose this watch in a poker game, and he didn’t die of a heart attack. I dropped the paper as if it burned my fingers. My mind raced. David had died in his sleep. The doctors said it was a massive coronary failure. It was peaceful. It was natural. Suddenly, my cell phone rang on the counter. The caller ID showed an unknown number. I stared at the screen, my hands shaking so badly I could barely swipe to answer. “Hello?” I whispered. “Did you open the box, Maria?” a deep, gravelly voice asked. I didn’t recognize the voice. It wasn’t Dominic. It wasn’t Anthony. “Who is this?” I demanded, trying to sound brave. “A friend of your late husband,” the voice said smoothly. “Or, more accurately, his former employer.” “My husband was a baker,” I said firmly. “He worked at the bakery on 4th Street.” The man on the phone laughed. It was a cold, cruel sound. “David baked bread during the day, Maria. But at night, he cleaned up messes. Specifically, he cleaned up messes for Dominic Russo’s father.” I gripped the edge of the counter to stop myself from falling over. “You’re lying.” “Am I? Check the back of the watch. Use the small latch near the winding gear.” I held the phone to my ear with my shoulder and picked up the watch. I found the tiny latch the man described. I pressed it with my thumbnail. The back casing of the watch popped open. Inside wasn't a collection of gears. It was a micro-cassette tape. “David was a smart man,” the voice continued. “He knew the Russo family would eventually clean house. So, twenty-two years ago, he stole something from them. A ledger. And he hid it.” “I don’t have any ledger,” I said, panic rising in my chest. “I know you don’t. But David told me he left the location in that watch. I’ve been looking for it for twelve years. I finally found the pawn shop where the people who killed him fenced the watch.” “Killed him?” I choked out. “A lethal injection of potassium chloride mimics a heart attack perfectly, Maria. They killed him looking for the ledger. But they didn't find the hidden compartment.” The room started spinning. “What do you want from me?” I cried. “I want what’s mine,” the voice said coldly. “Play the tape. Find the ledger. I am coming to your house in one hour. If you don’t hand it over, I will burn your newly paid-off house to the ground with you inside it.” The line went dead.