THE MAFIA BOSS’S FIANCÉE CALLED ME “A STUPID LITTLE MAID” WHEN I REFUSED TO BLAME HIS LATE MOTHER’S SEAMSTRESS—BUT ONE PHOTOGRAPH MADE NICO STOP THE ENGAGEMENT DINNER.

The grand dining room felt like the air had been sucked out of it. Sixty-four elite Chicago guests sat in dead silence, their expensive wine glasses frozen halfway to their lips.

Bianca’s perfectly manicured hands gripped the edge of the mahogany table. The torn lace veil was forgotten on the floor.

“Nico,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “It’s not what it sounds like.”

Nico Bellini didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to.

“How much, Bianca?”

“Ten thousand dollars,” she blurted out, a desperate tear finally spilling over her mascara. “But I didn’t need the money! I just wanted her ghost out of this house. Everywhere I look, it’s your mother. Her paintings, her recipes, her endless charity projects. I’m supposed to be the lady of this house now!”

Nico stared at her as if looking at a stranger. “Who did you sell the estate lot to?”

“Just an antique broker on the South Side,” Bianca stammered. “A man named Vance.”

My breath caught in my throat. I knew that name. My mother had done alterations for Marcus Vance’s wife. He wasn’t just an antique broker; he was a high-end fence for stolen goods.

“Mr. Bellini,” I said, my voice shaking but loud enough for him to hear.

Nico turned his dark eyes to me. “What is it, Emma?”

“Marcus Vance doesn’t hold auctions,” I said softly. “He breaks down estates and sells the items overseas within twenty-four hours. If he picked up those boxes today, they’re already being loaded onto freight planes at O’Hare.”

Nico’s face turned into stone. He looked at Claire, the wedding stylist. “When did the truck leave?”

“Four hours ago,” Claire whispered.

Nico pulled his phone from his tuxedo pocket. He didn’t look at his fiancée. “The wedding is off. Everyone out of my house.”

Bianca let out a shattered sob, reaching for his arm. “Nico, please! It’s just old clothes!”

“Get out,” Nico said quietly. It was a command that left no room for negotiation.

As the guests hurriedly stood, murmuring in shock, Nico turned to his head of security. “Lock down the gates. Nobody leaves until Bianca and her family have packed their things.”

Then he looked at me. “Emma. Get your coat.”

“Sir?”

“You know fabrics. You know my mother’s things because you helped Mrs. Alvarez restore them. I need your eyes to identify what’s missing before Vance puts them on a plane.”

Ten minutes later, I was sitting in the passenger seat of Nico’s black SUV, the Chicago rain pounding against the windshield. The silence in the car was heavy, thick with a grief Nico was trying hard to suppress.

“My mother had a silver music box in that cedar chest,” Nico suddenly said, keeping his eyes on the road. “Did you ever see it when you cleaned her room?”

“Yes, sir. It has a carved rose on the lid.”

“If Vance opens that box,” Nico’s voice was dangerously low, “it will destroy this family.”

I frowned. “I thought your mother only kept old letters in there.”

“That’s what everyone thought,” Nico said.

He slammed on the brakes as we pulled up to a dimly lit warehouse in Cicero. The heavy metal doors were wide open. A delivery truck was parked inside, completely empty.

Nico cursed under his breath, drawing a handgun from his shoulder holster. “Stay behind me.”

We stepped into the damp warehouse. It smelled like motor oil and cheap cigar smoke. Overturned wooden crates littered the concrete floor.

“They’re gone,” Nico said, his shoulders dropping.

But my eyes caught something in the corner. A flash of crimson under a broken pallet. I walked over and pulled it free. It was a torn sleeve of a red velvet coat.

I recognized the stitching instantly.

“Mr. Bellini,” I whispered, holding up the fabric.

Nico hurried over. “That’s my mother’s opera coat.”

“But look at the lining,” I said, pointing to a very specific, jagged hem stitch on the inside. “My mother taught me this stitch. She invented it because of her arthritis.”

Nico frowned. “What are you saying?”

“Vance didn’t buy this,” I said, my heart pounding as a terrifying realization washed over me. “My estranged uncle works for Vance. He’s the only other person who knows this stitch. He intercepts shipments before they reach the airfield.”

Nico looked at me, a dangerous glint in his eye. “Where is your uncle right now?”

Before I could answer, a small, terrified voice echoed from the dark rafters above us.

“Are you the bad men who took the lady’s shiny box?”