THE MAFIA BOSS SAW THE MAID SLIDE HIS ESTRANGED SISTER’S PLACE CARD BACK ONTO THE FAMILY TABLE—THEN HIS FIANCÉE SAID, “SHE DOESN’T BELONG HERE ANYMORE.” I should have left the card in the trash.

Dominic stared at the child’s drawing in my trembling hands.

The bloody handprint smeared the cheap paper, a brutal contrast to the innocent crayon strokes beneath it.

"Leo!" Elena screamed, running out the open back door into the freezing rain. "Leo!"

Dominic didn't yell. The terrifying calm had returned to him, freezing his features into a mask of pure violence.

"Check your pockets," Dominic read aloud.

He immediately reached into the inner breast pocket of his tailored suit jacket. He pulled out his phone, his wallet, and a silver money clip.

Nothing else.

He looked at me. "Check yours."

I frantically patted down my black maid's apron. My hands brushed against something stiff in the deep front pocket. Something that hadn't been there ten minutes ago when I was serving champagne.

I pulled it out.

It was a train ticket.

Thick, yellowed cardstock. Not a modern digital pass, but an old-fashioned punch ticket.

"Mr. Marino," I whispered, holding it out to him.

Dominic took the ticket. He read the destination printed in faded black ink.

North Point Harbor. Pier 4.

"Someone slipped this into your apron," Dominic said, his eyes scanning the empty kitchen. "While you were in the dining room."

Answer one: The kidnapping wasn't a sudden crime of opportunity. It was a planned operation, executed right under Dominic's nose.

Open two: Who in the dining room had the skill to pickpocket a maid during a family meltdown, and why direct us to an abandoned harbor?

Frankie, the head of security, burst into the kitchen, his gun drawn.

"Boss, the perimeter is locked down. Nobody gets in or out," Frankie barked.

"Someone already got out, Frankie," Dominic said coldly, holding up the ticket. "They took my nephew."

Frankie’s scarred face tightened. "Sabrina’s men?"

"Bring Sabrina to my study," Dominic ordered. "Tie her to the chair. She doesn't speak to anyone until I return."

"Where are you going?" Frankie asked.

"To Pier 4."

Elena stumbled back into the kitchen, soaking wet, her face pale with absolute terror. "He's gone, Dominic. There are tire tracks in the mud."

"We are going to get him back," Dominic promised, grabbing his sister by the shoulders. "I swear to you on our father's life, I will burn this city to the ground before I let anyone hurt that boy."

He looked at me. "Claire. You're coming with us."

I recoiled. "Me? Sir, I'm just a waitress—"

"You grew up in the Narrows," Dominic interrupted, his eyes boring into mine. "Your father was a dockworker at North Point Harbor. You know those piers better than my men do."

I swallowed hard. He knew my background. Dominic Marino truly knew everything about the people in his house.

"Yes, sir," I said.

We ran to the garage. Dominic didn't take the armored SUV. He threw us into a matte black sports car, tearing out of the estate at eighty miles an hour.

The rain lashed against the windshield as we flew through the dark Chicago streets.

"Why would Sabrina send him to the harbor?" Elena cried from the backseat, clutching the broken gold watch to her chest.

"She didn't," Dominic said, gripping the steering wheel.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Sabrina is ruthless, but she isn't theatrical," Dominic explained, his mind racing. "She doesn't leave bloody handprints or vintage train tickets. This is a message. From someone older."

We reached North Point Harbor in twenty minutes. It was a desolate wasteland of rusting shipping containers and rotting wooden docks.

Pier 4 was pitch black, save for a single, flickering halogen bulb at the end of the walkway.

Dominic pulled a heavy pistol from the center console. He racked the slide.

"Stay behind me," he ordered.

We stepped out into the freezing wind. The smell of salt and diesel fuel filled the air.

We walked down the wooden pier, our footsteps echoing over the crashing waves.

At the end of the pier, beneath the flickering light, was a small pile of fabric.

Elena gasped and ran forward. "That's Leo's coat!"

She snatched the small blue winter coat from the wet wood.

"He's not here," Dominic growled, scanning the empty, dark water. "It's a dead end."

"Look," I said, pointing to the pocket of the little blue coat.

A piece of paper was sticking out.

Dominic pulled it free.

It was a black-and-white photograph.

Dominic stared at it, the color draining from his face.

I leaned in to look.

The photograph showed a man standing in front of a burning car. The car was crushed against a coastal embankment. The exact scene of Vincenzo Marino’s death.

But the man standing in front of the flames wasn't a stranger.

It was Frankie. Dominic's head of security.

And in his hand, Frankie was holding the gold pocket watch.

A massive reversal hit us like a physical blow. Sabrina hadn't killed their father. Sabrina had only covered for the man who did. Frankie was the traitor.

Suddenly, the harsh glare of high beams flooded the pier.

A massive black SUV had quietly rolled to the end of the dock, blocking our only exit.

The driver's side door opened.