THE MAFIA BOSS WATCHED HIS FIANCÉE SWITCH OFF A 63-YEAR-OLD COOK'S RINGING PHONE AT HIS ENGAGEMENT DINNER—THEN SHE SAID, “HER DAUGHTER'S HAVING A BABY, NOT DYING,” BEFORE HE EVEN ASKED WHY THE OLD WOMAN WAS CRYING AND BEGGING TO LEAVE.

The warmth of the restaurant vanished instantly.

Luca stared at the gold watch in his hand, the intricate S.M. (Salvatore Moretti) mocking him in the dim light.

"This is impossible," Luca breathed, his thumb tracing the scratches on the metal. "I put this in his casket myself. I watched them lower it into the ground."

Daniel stood rigidly beside him. "Sir, nobody has requested an exhumation. And our men guard the family mausoleum 24/7."

"Clearly, they don't guard it well enough," Luca snapped, his voice sharp with rising panic.

He slammed the box shut.

"Don't tell Rose or Megan. Don't ruin tonight for them," Luca ordered, looking at me. "Hannah, come with me. Daniel, bring the car."

Thirty minutes later, we stood outside the towering marble gates of the Moretti family mausoleum.

The Chicago wind howled through the sprawling cemetery, whipping my coat around my legs.

Daniel had called ahead. Two security guards stood by the heavy iron doors, looking terrified.

"The lock isn't broken, Mr. Moretti," one of the guards stammered. "Nobody came in or out."

Luca ignored them. He took the heavy brass key from Daniel and unlocked the grated door himself.

We stepped into the cold, silent crypt.

The marble walls were lined with the names of generations of Morettis. But Luca walked straight to the back, to the grand sarcophagus that held his father, Salvatore.

The heavy stone lid was perfectly intact. There were no scratch marks, no signs of forced entry.

"Open it," Luca commanded.

Daniel and the two guards grabbed crowbars from the maintenance shed. With a grueling, echoing grind, they pushed the heavy marble lid aside.

Luca stepped forward, shining his phone flashlight down into the velvet-lined casket.

I held my breath, bracing myself to look at the remains of the ruthless mafia boss.

But when the light hit the bottom of the casket, I gasped.

There were no bones. There was no burial suit.

The casket was completely empty.

Luca staggered back, dropping his phone. It clattered loudly against the stone floor.

"He's not dead," Luca whispered, his voice trembling with a horrifying mix of shock and betrayal. "My father is alive."

I stared at the empty silk lining.

"How?" I asked, my voice echoing in the crypt. "He died of a heart attack six years ago. There was a doctor. A death certificate."

"Paid off," Daniel muttered, looking sick to his stomach. "The boss had enough money to buy the entire hospital board if he wanted to."

"But why?" Luca asked, staring into the dark void. "Why would he fake his own death and abandon the empire he built?"

I looked down at the velvet box Luca was still gripping in his hand.

"Answer One, Open Two," I whispered.

Luca looked at me.

"We found out your father paid for the hit on Enzo," I said, my mind racing to connect the pieces. "But we never asked why he faked his death right after your mother died."

Luca's eyes narrowed. "My mother died of cancer. He was heartbroken."

"Or," I said slowly, "he was running."

I reached into the empty casket. Resting in the center of the velvet, completely out of place, was a small, folded piece of paper.

I picked it up and handed it to Luca.

He unfolded it.

It was a flight manifest from a private jet, dated the exact day of Salvatore's funeral.

The destination was Palermo, Italy.