THE MAFIA BOSS’S FIANCÉE ORDERED THE 25-YEAR-OLD MAID TO POISON HIS GRANDMOTHER—BUT WHAT THE MAID DID AT THE ENGAGEMENT

The words hung in the damp air of the train station, heavier than the concrete walls.

"Your grandmother?" I stammered, staring at the signature on the faded bank receipt. "Teresa? She paid my father five million dollars the night your parents died?"

"It doesn't make sense," Nico breathed, running a trembling hand through his dark hair. "Nonna loved my father. She raised me. She wouldn't pay a mechanic to assassinate her own son."

"Unless she wasn't paying him to do it," I realized, the pieces of my mother’s silent terror suddenly clicking into place. "Answer One, Open Two."

Nico looked at me. "What?"

"My mother told me that once," I explained rapidly, my heart hammering against my ribs. "When you answer one secret, it opens two more. If Teresa paid my father that money, it wasn't a hit contract. It was hush money. Or... it was an escape fund."

Nico stared at the grease-stained canvas coat in my arms.

"Arthur didn't cut the brakes," Nico said, his voice hardening as the truth finally broke through twenty-three years of lies. "He discovered who did. He went to Teresa to warn her. But it was too late. The hit was already in motion. So Teresa gave him the money and told him to run to Montreal to keep his family safe."

"But he never made it," I cried. "He was murdered three days later to tie up the loose end. And my mother has spent her entire life thinking the Morettis were hunting her."

"They weren't hunting her," Nico said, his eyes turning lethal. "The Whitmores were."

Suddenly, the screech of tires echoed from the street above. Heavy boots pounded down the concrete stairs leading to the locker room.

"They're here," Nico growled.

He shoved me behind a row of rusted lockers, raising his Glock.

Three heavily armed men wearing black tactical gear burst into the basement. They didn't shout warnings. They immediately raised their automatic rifles and opened fire on Locker 412.

The deafening roar of gunfire shredded the metal doors, showering the air in sparks and shrapnel.

Nico didn't flinch. He leaned out from the shadows and fired three precise shots. Two men dropped instantly. The third dove behind a concrete pillar, returning fire.

"Move!" Nico yelled, grabbing my hand.

We sprinted down a narrow maintenance corridor as bullets chewed through the plaster behind us. Nico kicked open a rusted fire exit, pushing me out into the freezing Chicago alleyway.

We scrambled into the Audi. Nico slammed the car into reverse, tires smoking as we tore out of the alley just as the third gunman breached the door.

I sat in the passenger seat, clutching my father’s coat, my chest heaving with panic.

"They were going to kill us," I sobbed.

"They were going to erase the proof," Nico corrected, his jaw clenched so tight it looked carved from granite. "Sloane sent them. She knows Teresa paid your father. She knows the receipt is the only thing linking her family to the assassination."

"Where do we go?" I asked, looking at the blood on Nico’s sleeve where a bullet had grazed his arm. "We can't go back to the mansion. Sloane controls the security there."

"We aren't going to the mansion," Nico said, his voice dangerously calm. "We're going to the one place Sloane would never think to look."

He drove us to the South Side, pulling into the desolate, crumbling parking lot of an abandoned Catholic church.

"Why are we here?" I asked as we hurried through the heavy wooden doors into the dark, silent sanctuary.

"Because my grandfather built a safe room under the altar," Nico explained, pushing aside a heavy wooden pew. He lifted a hidden grate in the floor, revealing a set of stone steps. "Only the true bloodline knows about it."

We climbed down into a surprisingly modern, well-lit bunker. It was stocked with medical supplies, weapons, and a massive radio array.

Nico sat on a cot, wincing as he peeled off his tuxedo jacket.

I didn't hesitate. I grabbed a first-aid kit from the wall, wet a cloth with antiseptic, and began cleaning the graze on his bicep.

He watched me. His dark eyes were intense, tracing the lines of my face.

"You're shaking," Nico noted softly.

"I'm terrified," I admitted, wrapping a bandage tightly around his arm. "My mother is out there with a woman who wants to execute her. And I'm a maid holding a twenty-year-old receipt."

Nico reached up with his good arm. He gently tucked a stray piece of hair behind my ear.

"You aren't a maid, Nora," Nico whispered. "You are the daughter of the bravest man I never knew. And I swear to you on my life, I will bring your mother back."

The air between us suddenly felt electric, heavy with a tension that had nothing to do with the guns or the mafia. He leaned closer, and for a split second, I thought he was going to kiss me.

But the radio console in the corner suddenly cracked to life with a burst of static.

"Nico. I know you're listening."

It was Sloane’s voice.

Nico stood up instantly, walking to the console. He pressed the broadcast button.

"I'm going to tear your heart out, Sloane," Nico promised.

"Such dramatic words for a dead man," Sloane laughed over the radio. "I have Evelyn. And she’s been very cooperative. But unfortunately, her stroke medication wore off hours ago. She’s fading fast."

"If she dies, you die," I screamed at the microphone.

"Oh, the little maid is there too," Sloane mocked. "Perfect. Here is the deal, Nico. You bring me the receipt from the locker. And you sign over the remaining deeds to the Bellini empire to my father. You have exactly one hour to meet me at the Whitmore shipping docks."

"Or what?" Nico demanded.

Sloane’s voice turned utterly venomous.