**THE MAFIA BOSS WATCHED ME CATCH A WOODEN DONATION BOX AS HIS TWELVE-YEAR-OLD DAUGHTER'S FIANCÉE SHOVED IT OFF THE ENGAGEMENT TABLE—THEN SHE SAID, “SHE WAS BEGGING FOR MONEY,” BEFORE HE EVEN ASKED WHY THE LITTLE GIRL WAS CRYING AND WHISPERING, “THAT WAS EIGHT MONTHS OF WORK FOR CHILDREN WHO DON'T HAVE BOOKS.”**

The heavy oak door clicked shut, muffling Vanessa’s screams as Marco dragged her down the hall.

The silence left behind was suffocating.

Luca stood in the center of the bedroom, staring at the empty space where his fiancée had just been kneeling. His chest rose and fell in slow, controlled breaths, but his hands were clenched so tightly his knuckles were white.

Mia sat frozen on the bed, her small hands gripping the blankets.

I didn't move. I barely breathed.

Luca slowly turned around and walked over to the bed. He sat down gently, as if his daughter were made of glass.

"Mia," he said softly.

She looked up at him, her eyes wide and shining with tears.

"I am so sorry," Luca whispered, his voice finally cracking. "I am so sorry I let that woman into our home."

Mia threw her arms around his neck, burying her face in his shoulder. Luca held her tightly, closing his eyes as he rested his cheek against her dark hair.

I watched them, my heart aching. For fourteen months, I had seen Luca Moretti as a terrifying, unapproachable boss. Tonight, he was just a broken father realizing he had invited a monster to sit at his dining table.

After a long moment, Luca pulled back slightly and wiped a tear from Mia’s cheek.

"I need you to be brave for me a little longer, sweetheart," he said gently. "Can you do that?"

Mia nodded, sniffing. "Yes, Daddy."

Luca stood up and turned to me.

"Rachel."

"Yes, Mr. Moretti."

"I need to make some phone calls. I need to handle Vanessa and her brother. I want you to pack a bag for Mia. Just enough for a few days. My driver will take you both to my private estate in Wisconsin until this is finished."

"Of course," I said quickly.

Luca headed toward the door, but stopped with his hand on the knob. He looked back at me.

"Your father was a good man, Rachel," he said quietly. "He died trying to protect my family. I promise you, by tomorrow morning, the people responsible will pay for it."

He left the room, the door clicking shut behind him.

I immediately went to Mia’s closet and pulled out a small duffel bag.

"Come on, sweetie," I said, trying to keep my voice cheerful. "Let's pack some warm clothes. It’s chilly in Wisconsin this time of year."

Mia slid off the bed and walked over to her desk. She didn't open her drawers for clothes. Instead, she opened the bottom drawer and pulled out a flat, red cardboard folder.

"Miss Rachel?" she said.

"Yes, honey?"

She opened the folder. "When Mommy died, the police officers asked me a lot of questions. Because I was on the phone with her when she crashed."

I stopped folding a sweater. "You were on the phone with her?"

Mia nodded. "I was six. I was using Daddy's iPad in the kitchen. Mommy called on FaceTime. She was crying. She said she had to go away for a little while, but she would come back for me."

Mia pulled a piece of construction paper out of the folder.

"The police asked me what I saw on the camera before the phone dropped," she whispered.

She handed the paper to me.

It was a child’s drawing in crayon.

It showed a blue car—Elena’s car.

And behind it, a black car pushing it off the road.

"I drew what I saw through the back window of Mommy's car," Mia explained softly.

I looked closely at the drawing. A six-year-old’s rendering of a vehicle. But there was one distinct detail she had drawn with absolute precision.

The headlights of the black car weren't normal circles.

They were drawn as sharp, angled rectangles with a distinct yellow bar cutting through the middle. Custom LED fog lights.

My blood turned to ice.

"Mia," I whispered, my mouth suddenly dry. "Vanessa drives a white Mercedes."