THE MAFIA BOSS’S FIANCÉE CALLED ME “AN UNEDUCATED LITTLE MAID” WHEN I STOPPED HER $85,000 CHARITY AUCTION—BUT SHE DIDN’T KNOW I W

The morning sun broke over Lake Michigan, casting a golden light through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows of the Romano estate.

I sat at the massive marble island in the kitchen, nursing a cup of black coffee. I was wearing one of Alessandro's oversized cashmere sweaters—my maid's uniform had been thrown in the trash the night before.

The house was quiet, a stark contrast to the absolute chaos of the previous night.

Marco was gone, handed over to federal agents before dawn. Camille was sitting in a holding cell downtown, facing a mountain of extortion and grand larceny charges.

And I was sitting in a billionaire's kitchen, trying to process the fact that my sweet, apron-wearing mother was actually Sofia Romano.

Footsteps echoed on the marble floors.

Alessandro walked in. He was wearing faded jeans and a simple grey t-shirt. He looked exhausted, but the heavy, dark burden he usually carried seemed to have lifted from his shoulders.

He walked straight to the coffee pot, poured a mug, and sat on the stool next to me.

"Leo is still sleeping," he said quietly. "Rossi is reading a newspaper outside his door."

"Thank you," I said. "For keeping him safe."

Alessandro looked at me. "I should be thanking you. You figured out the flight itinerary. You found the train ticket. You saved him twice."

He reached into his pocket and placed something on the counter between us.

It was the heavy, antique silver locket. The one Camille had hidden in the fake frame.

"I broke the clasp yesterday," Alessandro said, tracing the metal. "But I wanted you to have it."

I frowned. "Why would I want Camille's jewelry?"

"It wasn't hers," Alessandro corrected softly. "It was our mother's. Camille found it in the vault and decided she liked it. But it rightfully belongs to the women of this family."

He opened the locket. The picture of Leo was gone.

In its place, he had inserted a tiny, perfectly cut circle from the photograph we found in Harold's lockbox. A picture of my mother, smiling.

Tears pricked my eyes. I reached out and traced her face.

"I called her this morning," Alessandro said, his voice dropping to a whisper.

My head snapped up. "You did? What did she say?"

Alessandro smiled, a genuine, boyish smile I had never seen before. "She cried for ten minutes straight. Then she yelled at me in Italian for letting you get involved in a shootout in a wine cellar. She hasn't lost her touch."

I laughed, wiping a tear from my cheek. "That sounds like Mary Dawson."

"She's expecting us for lunch in Milwaukee," he said.

"I'll go get dressed," I said, sliding off the stool.

But as I stood up, Rossi walked briskly into the kitchen. The giant security chief looked troubled.

"Boss," Rossi said, his deep voice serious. "We have a problem."

Alessandro's relaxed demeanor vanished instantly. "Did Marco talk?"

"No, Marco is locked up tight," Rossi said, handing Alessandro an iPad. "It's the art restoration gallery. The one Camille's brother used to appraise the stolen pieces."

Alessandro took the tablet. I leaned over to look.

It was a news article, published just ten minutes ago.

BREAKING: Devastating Fire Destroys Historic West Side Art Gallery. Arson Suspected.

"They burned it down?" I gasped.

"To the ground," Rossi confirmed. "An hour ago. The fire chief says accelerant was used. It was a professional job."

Alessandro's jaw clenched. "Marcus is in custody. Marco is with the Feds. Who ordered the fire?"

"That's not the worst part," Rossi said grimly.

Rossi swiped to the second photo on the iPad.

It showed the smoldering ruins of the gallery. Spray-painted in bright, neon red paint on the only standing brick wall was a massive symbol.

A blue sailboat.

I felt all the blood drain from my face.

"The sailboat," I whispered. "The one from my mother's painting."