THE MAFIA BOSS’S FIANCÉE THREW HIS 64-YEAR-OLD COOK A “SURPRISE RETIREMENT PARTY”—BUT WHEN SHE ORDERED ME TO HAND THE WOMAN HER FINAL PAYCHECK,

The pearls felt cold and heavy in my palm.

“I don't understand,” I whispered, staring at the bracelet. “You said your mother was wearing this when she died. How did my mother get it?”

Dante carefully took the bracelet from my hand. He shined the flashlight directly onto it. The pearls weren't perfectly white. In the crevices between the beads, the silk thread was stained with dark, dried brown spots.

Blood.

Dante closed his eyes, a muscle feathering in his jaw. When he opened them, the sorrow had hardened into a cold, terrifying clarity.

“My mother didn't die on impact,” Dante said softly. “She survived the crash.”

The implication hung in the cool night air, chilling me to the bone.

“The police report said she died instantly,” Dante continued, his voice tight. “But if Sarah took this bracelet… she must have been there. She must have found my mother before the police did. Before she died.”

“My mother was at the crash site?” I asked, horrified. Sarah, the quiet woman who baked me birthday cakes and worked double shifts, had watched her friend die in the street?

“She didn't just watch,” Dante realized, looking at the torn blue coat still in his other hand. “Avery, why did Arthur Mercer spend fifteen years looking for the recipe book? Why didn't he just take it from my mother’s body?”

I gasped. “Because my mother took it first.”

Dante nodded slowly. “Sarah was supposed to meet my mother at the train station. When Isabella didn't show up, Sarah must have gone looking for her. She found the crash. She found Isabella dying.”

Dante looked at the pearls, his eyes glistening. “My mother gave Sarah the recipe book. And she gave her the bracelet to prove it. Sarah took the coat, hid the evidence, and vanished to protect the money. To protect me.”

It all made sense. The years of hiding, the absolute refusal to ever take photographs or open bank accounts. Sarah Cole hadn't just been a terrified witness. She had been the guardian of the Valenti fortune, hiding it in plain sight to ensure Arthur Mercer never got a dime.

“We have to go back to the estate,” Dante said, slipping the pearls into his pocket. “Rosa has the original recipe book. If we can decode it, we can drain Mercer’s accounts and end his entire operation before sunrise.”

We rushed back to the SUV and sped toward the Valenti estate.

When we arrived, the massive iron gates were open.

Dante slammed on the brakes. “Marco,” he barked into the phone. “Why are the gates open?”

“Boss,” Marco’s voice cracked over the line. “We have a situation. We got Mia inside safe, but…”

“But what?” Dante roared.

“It’s Lillian, sir. She came back while we were at the railyard. She bypassed the security system.”

“Where is she?” Dante demanded, already throwing the car in park and drawing his weapon.

“She’s in the main kitchen, boss,” Marco said, sounding sick. “She has Rosa.”

I didn't wait for Dante. I threw open my door and sprinted toward the house, my feet flying over the manicured gravel. Dante was right behind me.

We burst through the servant’s entrance and skidded to a halt in the massive, industrial kitchen.

The scene was out of a nightmare.

Rosa was tied to a heavy stainless-steel prep table, her face bruised and weeping.

Standing behind her, looking immaculate in a white designer trench coat, was Lillian Mercer.

In her left hand, she held the worn, leather-bound recipe book Dante’s mother had written.

In her right hand, she held a silver cigarette lighter. The flame was already lit.

“Ah, Dante,” Lillian smiled, her red lips curling cruelly. “You’re just in time for the bonfire.”

“Let her go, Lillian,” Dante said, his gun aimed directly at his former fiancée’s head. “It’s over. I have the scarred man. I know your father ordered the hit on my mother.”

Lillian laughed, a sharp, brittle sound. “My father is a coward, Dante. He spent fifteen years hiding because he was terrified Vincenzo Valenti would find out he botched the robbery and lost the ledger.”

She held the lit flame an inch closer to the fragile pages of the recipe book.

“But I am not my father,” Lillian sneered. “I didn't spend two years pretending to love you just to walk away empty-handed. My sister didn't want to cater your parties. She was searching this kitchen for this book. And now, I have it.”

“You can't decode it without the key,” Dante lied smoothly, stepping forward. “Put it down.”

“Oh, please,” Lillian scoffed. “I don't need the key. I have a team of cryptographers waiting at my private jet. They’ll crack this in an hour. Once I drain your offshore accounts, the Valenti syndicate will collapse, and the Mercers will take Chicago.”

“I’ll shoot you before you make it to the door,” Dante warned, his finger tightening on the trigger.

“Will you?” Lillian asked, her eyes flashing with malice.

She moved the lighter.

Not toward the book.

She held the flame directly under a massive, pressurized canister of commercial cooking oil sitting on the prep table next to Rosa.

“This canister is highly flammable, darling,” Lillian whispered. “If I drop this lighter, Rosa burns alive. And you and the little maid burn with her.”

Dante froze. He couldn't shoot. If Lillian fell and dropped the lighter, the kitchen would explode.

I looked at Rosa. The woman who had treated me like a daughter. The woman who had hidden my mother’s secret for fifteen years.

I couldn't let her die.

“Lillian, wait!” I shouted, stepping out from behind Dante.

Lillian looked at me with disgust. “What do you want, Avery?”

“You want leverage to get out of here?” I asked, my voice remarkably steady. “Take me. Rosa is an old woman. She’ll slow you down. Take me as a hostage to your plane.”

“Avery, no!” Dante roared, grabbing my arm.

I looked at him, my eyes blazing with the same stubborn fire my mother had possessed. “Trust me,” I whispered.

Lillian smiled maliciously. “The maid offers herself as a sacrifice. How poetic. Fine. Walk toward me, Avery. Slowly.”

I stepped away from Dante. I walked across the kitchen tiles, my hands raised.

As I reached the prep table, Lillian grabbed my collar, pressing the cold metal of a small pistol against my ribs.

“Drop the lighter,” I said quietly. “You have me.”

“I think I’ll keep it,” Lillian laughed.

But as she spoke, she reached into her coat pocket to secure the recipe book.

For a fraction of a second, the lighter moved away from the oil canister.

That was all I needed.

I didn't fight Lillian. I reached into my apron, pulled out the tarnished silver locket Rosa had given me, and smashed it as hard as I could into Lillian’s hand holding the lighter.

Lillian screamed in pain, dropping the lighter.

It hit the floor and went out.