THE MAFIA BOSS’S FIANCÉE TOLD EVERYONE I WAS “ONLY A MAID” WHEN I STOPPED HER FROM SERVING HIS FAVORITE WINE—BUT WHEN THE BOTTLE WAS TESTED, THE ENTIRE ROMANO DINING ROOM WENT COMPLETELY SILENT.** For seven seconds… Nobody touched their glasses.

Isabella staggered back as if she had been physically struck.

“Vincent, that’s… that’s ridiculous!” she stammered, her eyes darting nervously around the room. The thirty-eight guests were completely silent, watching the woman who was supposed to be the next queen of the Romano empire unravel. “The maid must have stolen the key! She’s trying to frame me!”

Vincent stepped out from behind the head of the table. He didn't look like a businessman anymore. He looked like the predator the entire city whispered about.

“My daughter,” Vincent said, his voice deadly quiet, “has not spoken a single word since the day her mother died. She trusts no one. She lets no one into her room except me. And you.”

He pointed at the empty glass vial resting inside the black velvet box.

“You stole my maid's keycard to access the cellar,” Vincent stated, piecing the puzzle together with terrifying speed. “You planted the poison in the wine. And you wrapped the empty vial in my daughter's drawing, planting it in the maid’s room so you could blame her if something went wrong.”

Isabella’s chest heaved. “You are taking the word of a servant over your future wife!”

Before Vincent could respond, the heavy mahogany doors of the dining room slowly pushed open.

Standing in the doorway, wearing a pale pink nightgown and clutching a worn, stuffed rabbit, was a little girl.

Mia Romano.

She was seven years old, with dark curls that mirrored her late mother’s, and enormous, sorrowful brown eyes. She shouldn't have been awake. She shouldn't have been downstairs.

But there she was.

Vincent’s entire demeanor shifted instantly. The lethal edge vanished, replaced by profound, protective tenderness. He rushed toward the door, dropping to one knee in front of his daughter.

“Mia, principessa,” Vincent said softly, reaching out to brush a curl from her face. “You shouldn’t be down here. It’s late.”

Mia didn’t look at her father.

Her wide, dark eyes bypassed the powerful men, the crystal chandeliers, and the terrified guests.

She was looking directly at Isabella.

Mia slowly raised her small hand and pointed her index finger right at Isabella’s designer purse resting on the side table.

“Mia?” Vincent asked gently, following her gaze.

Isabella lunged for the purse. “She’s just tired! I’ll take her back to bed—”

“Touch that bag, and I will break your wrist,” Marcus, the head of security, growled, stepping between Isabella and the table.

Vincent stood up. He walked over to the side table, picked up Isabella’s purse, and turned it upside down over the black marble floor.

Lipstick, a compact mirror, a wallet, and keys clattered onto the stone.

And right in the center of the pile landed a heavy, antique silver pocket watch.

The moment Vincent saw it, all the color drained from his face.

I recognized the watch instantly. Everyone in the staff knew about it. It was Elena Romano’s prized possession. She carried it everywhere. But it had gone missing on the day of the car crash three years ago. The police said it must have been lost in the wreckage.

“Where did you get this?” Vincent asked. His voice wasn’t angry anymore. It was hollow, echoing with a grief that had just been torn wide open.

Isabella couldn’t speak. Her lips moved, but no sound came out.

“Answer me!” Vincent roared, the sound shaking the crystal in the chandeliers.

Isabella flinched, tears of genuine panic finally spilling over her eyelashes.

But the real shock didn’t come from Isabella.

It came from Mia.

The little girl who hadn’t spoken a word in three years walked slowly past her father. She walked past the spilled purse. She walked directly up to me.

I held my breath, terrified to move.

Mia looked up at me. Her eyes were filled with a strange, heartbreaking recognition.

She reached into the pocket of her pink nightgown.

She pulled out a small, tarnished gold locket on a delicate chain.

She reached up, her small hands trembling, and pressed the locket into my palm.

I looked down at the cold metal. My heart stopped beating completely.

This locket didn't belong to Elena Romano. It didn't belong to Isabella.

It was mine.

Or rather, it had belonged to my mother. The mother who had died in a tragic hit-and-run accident three years ago, on the exact same day Elena Romano died.

I stared at the little girl, my mind spinning violently.

“Mia,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “How do you have this?”

Mia looked at me, her lower lip trembling. And then, for the first time in three years, the little girl opened her mouth and spoke.